Eleven
It was several hours later when Isa walked her grandfather back to his waiting carriage. Surprisingly, the afternoon had been a success. Due in most part to Barth’s gracious manners, she reluctantly acknowledged. He had treated Edward Brunston with genuine respect. Not once had he displayed any airs of condescension or patronage.
Indeed, he had even revealed a shrewd interest in the numerous businesses that Edward owned throughout England. Within a few moments, her grandfather had lost his self-conscious unease at being in the company of an aristocrat and conversed with an open friendliness that revealed his own regard for the nobleman.
Isa had found herself quietly amazed at the mutual affinity. Her grandfather had always professed a cynical disregard for worthless dandies, while Barth’s position demanded he treat a mere businessman with a measure of distaste. But neither had revealed any hint of their differing stations. Isa had also been amazed by Barth’s seeming ability to sense that she wished for time alone with her grandfather. After sharing tea, he had risen and offered them wishes for a pleasant visit before making his farewell.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Isa had chatted inanely, determinedly keeping her grandfather from probing too deeply into her private affairs.
Of course, it was a wasted effort. As they reached the glossy black carriage, her grandfather firmly tilted her countenance upward for a piercing inspection.
“What is it, lass?” he demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“There is more than a lingering chill that is making you so pale and drawn.”
Isa grimaced, realizing that she could not deceive Edward Brunston.
“I have told Mother that I will not wed Lord Wickton,” she reluctantly confessed.
“Ah. And that is what is causing your sleepless nights?”
“Of course not,” she hastily denied. Botheration. Did he have to be so perceptive? She did not wish anyone to know the restless hours she laid awake, struggling to deny the empty ache in the middle of her heart. “I am quite satisfied with my decision.”
There was a pause before a rather mysterious smile curved his lips.
“He is a fine gentleman. I liked him.”
Of course, Isa concurred wryly. There was no one in all of England who did not like Barth Juston, earl of Wickton.
“He is a shameless rake,” she informed him in stern tones.
“Is he?” The shaggy brows raised.
“Yes.”
“Are you certain that you do not mistake being a hardened rake with the natural curiosities of youth?”
Her tiny features settled in lines of distaste. She doubted that Barth’s beautiful and sophisticated mistress would wish to be considered no more than a curiosity of youth.
“He is just like Father.”
“No.” Edward gave a decisive shake of his head. “Your father is a weak man with a deplorable lack of morals. Lord Wickton is certainly not weak, and from all accounts he is considered an honorable gentleman.”
An unconscious pain flared through her amber eyes. “Hardly honorable.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He has a beautiful mistress in London.”
“Does he?” Edward shrugged, his smile widening. “It is hardly uncommon, my dear. Most young gentlemen acquire a mistress before they wed. Besides, I would wager that he does not gaze at her with such longing.”
“What?”
“I may be old, but I am not without eyes.”
Her breath caught somewhere in her throat. Barth gazed at her with longing? No. It was too ridiculous.
“Lord Wickton has no interest in me beyond my dowry,” she said stiffly.
Edward gave a soft laugh. “It is not a dowry he is thinking of when he looks upon you.”
“Absurd.”
“You are a good lass. Do not let your stubborn pride steal your chance for happiness.”
Had he not listened to a word she had been saying?
“This has nothing to do with my pride.”
“Does it not?” her grandfather demanded. “Are you certain that you are not trying to convince yourself that Lord Wickton is like your father rather than admit he wounded your heart by leaving Kent?”
Her face paled at the accusation.
“That is ridiculous.”
“Is it? When you were young, you placed him on a very high pedestal, my love. He was bound to topple off someday. Don’t be too hard on him. He is just a man.”
“A man I no longer trust.”
“Perhaps it is your heart that you no longer trust.” He reached up to lightly tap her nose. “Think upon what I have said. We will meet again next month.”
* * *
After yet another fitful night, Isa rose early and determinedly dressed in a sturdy gown of mint green and golden pelisse. Then, avoiding the breakfast room where her mother was certain to be enjoying her coffee, she slipped out through the door and into the courtyard.
She had no desire to explain her need for the fresh spring air or her determination to avoid Barth’s daily visit. She did not even wish to dwell on the reasons herself. All she allowed herself to ponder was a sudden urge to speak with Peter Effinton.
With a brisk step, she crossed the cobblestones and entered the narrow path that wound its way toward the vicarage and into the nearby village. About her, the smell of sweet clover hung in the air, and in the distance the sound of water rushing over the rocks echoed from the cliffs.
She slowed her step and forced herself to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the play of butterflies over the newly budded wildflowers. It was the first occasion she had left the estate since her tumble into the lake. She should at least make the effort to enjoy her newfound freedom.
Long minutes later, she skirted the small stone church and entered the gardens surrounding the vicarage. As expected, Peter was just leaving for his morning stroll as she approached. He was nearly upon her before he noticed her presence, and with a muffled exclamation, the young gentleman stumbled to a surprised halt.
“Oh.”
Isa allowed her gaze to drift over the ill-fitted coat and breeches stained with spots of ink. A familiar stab of amused fondness rushed through her heart. She did care a great deal for this man. He was kind, intelligent, and utterly predictable. Precisely the qualities she desired in a gentleman.
So why, then, had a dark cloud of doubt begun to hang about her head?
Blast Lord Wickton and his disturbing insinuations, she inwardly sighed.
“Good morning, Peter.”
“Isa. How are you?”
“I am well.”
“Good. I had heard . . .” He gave a rather awkward cough. “It was said that Lord Wickton sent to Canterbury for a doctor.”
Isa tried not to consider the realization that Peter would never have gone to such an effort.
“Yes, he did.”
“I was quite concerned.”
She stepped closer, an unconscious frown marring her brow. “Were you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I thought you might call,” she said softly.
“Well . . .” He gave another awkward cough. “I did not wish to disturb you.”
A treacherous suspicion that it was more a dislike at being near an invalid than fear of disturbing her was swiftly banished.
Blast Lord Wickton.
“You are always welcome at Cresthaven.”
A faint blush touched his cheeks. “Very kind of you, Isa.”
“I trust that you did not suffer from our dunking?”
“No.” He gave a shake of his head. “Never sick, you know.”
“Good.”
A small silence fell as he shifted beneath her steady regard. Then a sudden light entered his eyes.
“I have uncovered a most fascinating manuscript. Would you like to see it?”
Isa felt a pang of disappointment. Clearly, Peter had not been burdened too heavily with concern for her welfare if he could devote his attentions to continuing his research.
“Not today, thank you.”
He appeared once again at a loss.
“Perhaps we could just sit and talk?”
“Why, yes.”
Together they moved toward the small bench that faced the nearby road. Itwas so narrow that they were forced to sit close together, but Isa felt none of the unnerving tingles in the pit of her stomach that Barth created.
Of which she was quite relieved, she tried to tell herself.
“It is a most beautiful day,” she said with a small smile.
“Ah . . .” Peter glanced about as if noting the mild spring weather for the first time. “So it is.”
Taking a moment to consider her words, Isa turned the conversation toward the subject that had been plaguing her for the past few days.
Barth was wrong about Peter, and she would prove it.
“I believe that Miss Keaton has left Kent.”
Peter appeared unconcerned. “Has she?”
“Did you have the opportunity to speak with her?”
“No.” He gave a vague shrug. “Not really.”
“You were once very close,” she prompted.
“Well, we were both young.”
“But you must have cared for her?”
“I suppose.”
Isa tried not to be disturbed by his lack of emotion. It had been long ago. And not all people allowed the pangs of first love to continually disrupt their lives.
“It is fortunate that you did not wed.”
“Yes, we had nothing in common.”
She carefully regarded his pale features. “No doubt, if you do decide to marry, you will choose a lady who shares your interests?”
A startled expression rippled over his countenance, as if the notion of marriage had never even entered his head. Then a slowly dawning smile curved his lips.
“Yes. Yes, indeed,” he agreed. “It should be lovely to have someone to transcribe my notes and help with my research.”
Isa’s heart faltered at the impetuous words. “That sounds more like a secretary than a wife,” she protested.
“Well, she would also care for the house and see to the cooking.”
“Surely that is not all you would seek in a wife?”
His brow wrinkled with thought. “I suppose she would have to be a restful sort. I am far too busy to be bothered with a great deal of fuss. And someone who would realize the importance of my work and help tend to the daily matters so that I could concentrate on my research.”
His tone warmed as the pleasant image of being devotedly coddled formed in his mind even as Isa felt herself grow cold. She was uncertain what she had hoped to hear. She had always known that Peter was not overly romantic or poetic in nature. She had even admired his single-minded obsession with his studies. But while she did not expect passionate confessions of what he desired in a wife, she had not thought even Peter could be quite so self-absorbed. For goodness’ sake, he could hardly expect a woman to be satisfied with keeping his notes in order and his stomach full.
What of love?
“That sounds lovely,” she muttered.
Unaware of her darkened eyes and faint droop of her lips, Peter gave a decisive nod of his head.
“My mother was a great help to my father.”
“Was she?”
“She helped with his sermons and visited the poor. And of course she ensured that he was not interrupted when he was occupied with his studies. That should be quite convenient for a gentleman.”
“Yes.”
The sound of approaching horses rumbled through the air, and it was with a decided sense of relief that Isa turned toward the road.
She had not wanted to believe Barth’s accusation that a wife would claim but a small token of Peter’s attention. Even though she had no doubt suspected the truth all along. Instead, she had tried to convince herself that the young man would eventually grow attached to her and become the suitor she thought she wanted.
Oddly, though, the realization that Peter would never be the husband she had envisioned caused no more than a twinge of regret. Surely she should be devastated by the truth. Mter all, she had devoted months to the dream of sharing a small cottage with the young scholar. She had even invented two children and a tiny puppy that would lie on the stoop. Why wasn’t her heart broken as it had been when Barth had betrayed her?
Lost in her thoughts, Isa vaguely watched the approaching curricle. It was not until a lithe form vaulted onto the street and then firmly marched into the garden that she was aware of her danger.
Her musings abruptly vanished as she met the glittering hazel gaze of Lord Wickton. Whatever her changing feelings for Peter, nothing had altered her determination not to be bullied, cajoled, or seduced into marriage with Barth. She would rather be on her own.
“There you are.” Barth advanced at a relentless pace.
She smiled wryly, having no doubt he had been searching the countryside for her. He was nothing if not determined.
Peter belatedly rose to his feet and offered a bow. “Good morning, my lord.”
Barth ignored him as he regarded Isa’s defiant expression with a narrowed gaze.
“What are you doing?”
“Simply enjoying a pleasant conversation with Peter,” she retorted.
He was not appeased; indeed, there was an uncharacteristic harshness to his handsome features.
“The doctor said you were not to overtire yourself.”
“I am not in the least tired.”
“He also said that you were to remain out of the wind.”
“For goodness’ sake, Barth, there is not a hint of wind,” she exclaimed in exasperation.
“I am certain that Mr. Effinton would agree that you should not be taking unnecessary risks with your health.”
Predictably, Peter was swift to agree. “Certainly not.”
“I am not tired, and there is no wind, so if that is all . . .”
“Very well. Since you are confident there is no danger, perhaps you would join me for a drive?” he smoothly interrupted.
She briefly wondered if anyone had ever told this man no.
“Peter was just about to show me his latest research,” she readily lied.
“Well, we can discuss this later,” Peter insisted.
A sudden, worrisome smile softened Barth’s features.
“An excellent notion,” he announced. “Perhaps over dinner. I have two guests arriving, and I hope you both will join us for dinner.”
Isa stiffened with a flare of suspicion. “More guests, my lord?”
That devilish glint returned to his eyes. “Yes.”
“You have quite enlivened our dull neighborhood.”
He gave a slight, mocking bow. “Thank you.”
He was plotting something, she told herself. Something devious.
“More relatives?” she demanded. His lips twitched at her direct thrust. “No. Indeed, Mr. Effinton might be familiar with one or two of my acquaintances.”
“Me?” Peter regarded Lord Wickton in confusion. “I fear that I know few people in London.”
“I believe that both Sir Wilhelm and Mr. Brockfield have lectured at Oxford.”
There was a loud gasp as Peter took a stumbling step forward.
“You . . . You cannot mean to say they will be in Kent?”
“Yes.”
“But that is most wonderful,” Peter breathed, a decided glow on his thin face.
“Then you are acquainted with them?”
“By reputation only.” Peter was nearly stammering in his excitement. Isa had never seen him so eager. “To think that I will meet with them . . . speak with them. But they cannot wish to meet me.”
Isa’s suspicions deepened as she watched Barth’s lips twitch with amusement. He had obviously expected Peter’s reaction. No doubt he had even depended upon it, she realized with a flash of insight. He had failed to come between her and Peter with Miss Keaton, so now he was using a far more potent weapon.
Scholars.
The devious toad.
“I assure you that they will be delighted to speak with so worthy a scholar.”
Peter flushed with pleasure even as he gave a shake of his head.
“No, I am lowly indeed in comparison.”
“But you will come?” Barth pressed.
“I should be honored.” Peter choked. “Quite, quite honored.”
Barth smiled. “Good.”
“I must gather my notes,” Peter abruptly announced, then, with an afterthought, offered his benefactor a deep bow. “Thank you, my lord, thank you.”
Without so much as a glance toward Isa, Peter turned and hurried back toward the house. Isa had no doubt that in his excitement he had forgotten her very existence. Still, it was toward the gentleman currently regarding her with an annoyingly satisfied expression that she directed her anger.
How dared he dangle respected scholars beneath Peter’s nose? It was no better than a common bribe.
“Well, it appears that you are now free to join me for a drive,” he drawled.
Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Tell me, my lord, is there nothing you will not do to achieve your desires?”
Without warning, he stepped forward and cupped her chin in a firm grasp.
“Nothing, Isa,” he informed her in a disturbingly relentless tone. “Nothing at all.”