Thirteen
Isa was in a decided muddle.
The man was impossible, of course.
Utterly impossible.
First, he had deliberately attempted to lure Peter away with the annoying Miss Keaton. And then, when that had not succeeded, he had invited Sir Wilhelm and Mr. Brockfield to Kent knowing that they would thoroughly overwhelm Peter with their presence.
And yet, through the long, restless night it was not Barth’s outrageous behavior that had haunted her but the memory of his husky words.
It has never been my intention to be unfaithful to my wife.
He sounded so sincere, as if he truly cared that she believe his vow. And the way he had gazed deep in her eyes had stolen her very breath.
Was her grandfather right? Had she allowed her wounded pride at being abandoned in Kent while he enjoyed the pleasures of London to sway her judgment? Had she been too harsh? Too unforgiving?
Isa, what a fool you are, she chastised herself.
What did she care if Barth vowed to become a virtual saint once he wed? She had already decided she was not to be his bride.
Had she not?
Gazing out the window, Isa felt a shiver race through her body. She wished that Barth had not returned to Kent. With him far away, it had been easy to convince herself that her feelings for him had been childish fantasies and that she had matured enough to recognize substance from charm.
But since his return . . .
Botheration.
She did not want to admit that her heart still halted the moment he walked into the room or that the day seemed a bit dull until she knew that she would be in his company.
No, she was worse than a fool, she assured herself. She was clearly noddy.
Lost in her brooding thoughts, Isa had nearly forgotten her mother, seated in a far chair, stitching on a sampler, until her voice echoed through the vast salon.
“Really, Isa, is something the matter?”
She instinctively stiffened at the accusation. She had no intention of confessing her troubled thoughts to her mother. Louise Lawford would have her halfway to the altar before she knew what was occurring.
“Of course not.”
“You have been peering out the window all morning.“ Mrs. Lawford favored her daughter with a coy smile. “Are you expecting a visitor?”
Of course she was, she granted with a pang of disgust. She waited every day for the sight of Lord Wickton.
“I am merely admiring the fine weather,” she answered, forcing herself to lie. “I believe the lilacs are coming into bloom.”
Her mother refused to be put off. “I thought perhaps you were awaiting Lord Wickton.”
Isa battled the betraying blush. “Why should you suppose any such thing?”
“Why should I not?” Louise smiled in a decidedly smug manner. “He has called every day since your illness.”
“I am well now,” Isa pointed out, uncertain whom she was attempting to convince. “Besides, he is entertaining guests.”
The older woman merely laughed. “Silly goose. I witnessed Lord Wickton’s conduct last evening. He could not stray from your side. Mark my words, he will be calling.”
Isa regarded her mother with a faint frown.
“I hope that you are not still harboring the belief that I will wed Lord Wickton.”
“But of course,” Louise retorted. “Even you must admit that he has proven to be all that is proper in a gentleman since his return to Kent.”
“He could hardly be otherwise in such a rural community.”
Her mother gave a disapproving sniff at her stubborn expression.
“And what of his devotion during your illness?” she demanded. “I must tell you that it warmed my heart to witness him tend to your slightest need. What other gentleman would have been so thoughtful?”
Isa caught her breath. The truth was that no one could have been more patient or more caring. He had known precisely how to ease her discomfort and bring a smile to her face.
“He was very kind,” she murmured.
“Far more kind than the vicar’s son.”
Isa swallowed a weary sigh, turning back toward the window.
“Please, Mother.”
“What? I am speaking no less than the truth. You could find no better husband than Lord Wickton.”
“I . . .” Isa’s protest was cut short as she glimpsed the slender form of Peter Effinton scurrying across the courtyard. Her eyes widened at the uncharacteristic haste. As a rule, Peter shuffled through the countryside, barely aware of his surroundings. She could only wonder at his odd haste.
“What is it?” her mother demanded.
“It is Peter, and he appears to be in an uncommon hurry.”
“Fah. Ridiculous boy.”
Isa turned back with a warning frown. “Please be polite, Mother.”
Mrs. Lawford merely shifted so that her back was toward the door. It was obvious she had no intention of even greeting their unexpected guest. With a grimace, Isa moved across the room. Did everything have to be so complicated?
Within moments, the butler was pulling open the door with a slight bow.
“Mr. Effinton is here to see you.”
“Please show him in, Rushton.”
“Very good.”
The servant disappeared, only to be swiftly replaced by a flushed Peter. Isa blinked in mild surprise as she noted his disarrayed hair and rumpled shirt.
“Good morning, Peter. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it is frightfully early for a call, but I simply had to speak with you.”
She raised her brows, her curiosity thoroughly roused. “Has something occurred?”
“Yes, I should say so.”
Wondering what could possibly have roused the placid scholar to such enthusiasm, Isa waved a hand toward the window seat.
“Why do we not make ourselves comfortable?” Moving to the seat, Isa settled herself on the cushion; then, waiting for Peter to join her, she offered him an encouraging smile. “Now, what has happened?”
Quite astonishingly, Peter reached out to grasp her hands in a strong grip.
“You will never guess who called on me this morning.”
She gave a soft laugh. From Peter’s tone it might have been the prince regent himself.
“I fear I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Mr. Brockfield,” he pronounced in awed tones.
“How wonderful,” Isa congratulated with genuine pleasure. “You must have impressed him last evening.”
His thin face flushed with excitement. “That is precisely what he said. Can you imagine?”
“I am not at all surprised.”
His grip on her hands tightened to a near-painful level. “Not only that, but Isa, he has offered me a post.”
Isa forgot her crushed fingers as her smile slowly faded. “What?”
“He wishes me to be his secretary,” Peter elaborated, oblivious as always to Isa’s reaction. “To assist him in his studies and even his lectures.”
A cold, hard ball settled in the pit of her stomach.
“He wishes you to leave Kent?”
“Well, of course I will travel with him,” Peter retorted, as if surprised she would even ask such an obvious question. “He said that we shall be leaving for Brussels within the month. Is that not the most glorious news?”
Glorious was not the word Isa would have used. She pulled her hands free as she allowed her budding suspicion to flower.
She did not believe for a moment that Mr. Brockfield had been so taken with Peter that he had rushed to the vicarage this morning to offer him a position. No matter how brilliant Peter might be, a gentleman such as Mr. Brockfield could have his choice of willing scholars throughout England. Why would he travel to the midst of the country and suddenly conclude he was in dire need of a secretary?
No, this had the Machiavellian hand of Lord Wickton written all over it.
A sharp, nearly unbearable pain lanced through her heart. Would Barth go to such lengths? After all, it was one thing to dangle temptations or offer distractions, but to actually intrude into an innocent man’s life, to manipulate his very future.
Was anyone that arrogant?
“Isa.”
With a blink, Isa realized that Peter was regarding her with a gathering frown.
“Yes?” she murmured, attempting to gather her scattered thoughts.
“Is something the matter?”
She could hardly confess the truth. Still, she felt the need to offer some hint of warning.
“This is all rather sudden, is it not?” she cautiously pointed out. “You did just meet last evening. He knows little about you.”
Peter happily shrugged. “He remembers a paper he read of mine at Oxford. He said that it had convinced him I was worthy of such an extraordinary opportunity.”
“How very convenient.”
“I cannot believe my good fortune.”
“Yes, it is remarkably unbelievable,” she muttered. “What do you suppose is the likelihood of Mr. Brockfield arriving in Kent and meeting you precisely when he is in need of a secretary?”
“I must thank.God for my blessings.”
Isa gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “I believe there is someone nearer at hand you can thank.”
Peter gave a bemused blink. “What?”
Isa bit back her impetuous words. Whatever the reason for Mr. Brockfield’s offer, it truly was an extraordinary opportunity for Peter. She could not steal his moment of glory.
“Nothing.”
“Well, I must go.” Peter surged to his feet, his eyes glowing with anticipation. “I merely wished to share such wondrous news.”
Hardly an emotional farewell, she wryly acknowledged. Not that she expected anything more. Still, she hoped he would find happiness.
“Peter,” she called softly.
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you.” With a distracted bow, he turned to hurry out the door.
Drawing in a deep breath, Isa slowly rose to her feet. While she might wish Peter well, she did not wish Barth such luck.
Indeed, she very much wished to have his handsome head upon a platter.
“This time, Lord Wickton, you have gone beyond the pale . . . ,” she muttered.
* * *
Having spoken with Andrew and been assured that Peter Effinton would soon be safely on his way to London, Barth settled Sir Wilhelm with his grandmother and made his way back to the main wing.
He was feeling decidedly pleased with himself.
It was just as he had predicted from the outset. A well-laid plan, the proper weapons, and success was assured.
Soon Peter would be away from Kent, and Isa would have to admit that her absurd attachment to the young gentleman had been a mere figment of her imagination. From there it was only a matter of convincing her that he himself was a far more dependable prospect as a husband.
Strolling into the library, Barth was sifting through the morning mail when the door was thrust open and the butler stepped into the room.
“My lord,” the servant murmured with a faint bow.
“Yes?”
“Miss Lawford is here,” Gatson announced in disapproving tones. “She says that she wishes to speak with you . . . alone.”
Barth raised his brows in surprise. Isa had not deliberately sought his company since his return to Kent. And to do so in such an unconventional manner was decidedly unlike her.
He tossed aside the large stack of letters. “Send her in.”
The butler gave a stiff bow. “Very good, my lord.”
Smoothing the jade coat he had matched with a pale yellow waistcoat and buff breeches, Barth waited with a flare of anticipation for his unexpected guest. He had resigned himself to not seeing her until later in the day. He was glad she had taken matters into her own hands.
When the door opened, Barth felt his blood quicken at the sight of her slender frame, clothed in a simple gown of mist blue. Without thought, he was moving forward to lift her hand for a lingering kiss.
“Ah, Isa, what a delightful surprise.”
“Is it?” she demanded, determinedly pulling her hand from his grasp.
Lifting his head, he studied her set features and smoldering amber eyes. It did not appear as if she had come this morning to confess a change of heart.
“Is something amiss, Isa?”
“Surely you knew that I would come when I discovered the truth,” she demanded with a familiar tilt of her chin. “Or did you think me too stupid to see through your obvious interference?”
His gaze narrowed at her accusing tone. “I fear that I am not following your meaning. What interference have I supposedly performed?”
“You know quite well you invited Mr. Brockfield here for the sole purpose of having him offer Peter a post as his secretary.”
Barth stiffened. Good lord, Peter must have rushed to her doorstep at the crack of dawn. Still, they might as well settle the matter of Effinton sooner rather than later.
He crossed his arms over the width of his chest. “As a matter of fact, I only invited Sir Wilhelm and Mr. Brockfield to prove to you that Peter’s true love would always be his studies. The notion of having Andrew offer him a position only came when I realized they were so obviously suited to one another.”
Her eyes widened at his smooth explanation. “So you admit it.”
“Why should I not?”
“You are . . . despicable.”
“Why?” A gathering frown marred his wide brow. “Because I am determined to marry you?”
She was clearly unimpressed by his motives.
“Because you haven’t the least concern for anyone besides yourself. Did it ever occur to you that you had no right to interfere in Peter’s life?”
“Interfere?” Barth felt a rising sense of irritation. Really, she was being thoroughly unreasonable. “I provided an opportunity that he would never have achieved on his own. Do you believe Peter would prefer to remain living with his father in Kent when he could be traveling throughout Europe with Mr. Brockfield?”
“That is not the point,” she gritted.
“Is it not?”
“No.”
“Then what is?”
Her hands slapped onto her hips. “The point is that you decided Peter was an obstacle to what you wanted, and like any obstacle, you simply swept him aside. You did not even consider that he is a fellow human being.”
Dash it all. She made him sound as if he were some ogre.
“If I did not care, he would have simply disappeared in the local river,” he pointed out.
Her lips thinned. “That is not amusing.”
“Well, it is certainly not the heavy-handed tragedy you are making it. Andrew is satisfied, and your Mr. Effinton is delighted. What is the harm?”
Her eyes rolled heavenward as ifhis stupidity surpassed all bearing.
“And what of me?”
His frown deepened. By gads, how was he to know what he was being accused of if she did not explain?
“What of you?”
“Obviously you have no concern for Peter, but you claimed to be my friend.”
“I am.”
“And so you lie, deceive, and manipulate to take away a gentleman you know that I care about?”
Barth ground his teeth. Did she purposely view him in the worst possible light? Anyone would think he had kidnapped Peter Effinton and shipped him to the colonies, if not tortured and buried him in the dungeon.
“I wanted to avert you from making a terrible mistake. Effinton could never make you happy.”
Far from appeased, Isa gave a humorless laugh.
“You must think me a witless fool. You did not care if I would be happy with Peter or even if it would break my heart if he was taken away. You had decided that I was to be your countess, and nothing was going to stand in your path. Certainly nothing so insignificant as my feelings.”
Barth stilled as a flare of pain twisted through his gut.
“Is your heart broken?”
An unreadable mask settled onto her tiny countenance. “Does it matter?”
He stepped forward, battling the urge to pull her into his arms and effectively prove that Effinton meant nothing to her. He would wager his last quid she never responded to that milksop as she did to him.
“You have not answered my question.”
“And I do not intend to,” she informed him stiffly.
Barth’s hands clenched at his sides. “He does not deserve you.”
Her gaze narrowed. “And you do?”
“I shall do my best.”
“Oh, no.” She gave a slow shake of her head. “You will not be given the opportunity.” Something that might have been pain flared through her magnificent eyes. “Good-bye, my lord. Please do not attempt to see me again.”
Momentarily shocked by the bleak demand, Barth watched in silence as Isa turned and fled the room.
What the devil had just happened?
Isa was supposed to be furious with Peter. After all, he was the one abandoning her without regard to her feelings, while he was remaining to offer her marriage.
But instead . . .
Abruptly realizing that Isa was slipping away, Barth hurried into the hall. But it was too late. There was no sign of the woman who had so disrupted his morning.
Blast . ..