Here Comes the Bride by Alexandra Ivy (32)

Staggering down the street in a decidedly inebriated state, Barth attempted to keep his head from spinning.

London was precisely as he remembered.

Within hours of returning to his town house, he had been flooded with invitations to routs, balls, and every social event imaginable. He had also received several suggestive notes from the lovely Monique, who had swiftly discovered his return. But while Barth forced himself to spend his evenings with the elegant ton and devoted the late evenings to the various gaming halls, he felt nothing beyond an aching wish to be back in Kent.

It was ludicrous. He should be delighted at being back among civilized society. This was how he had once thought he wished to devote the rest of his life. Yet night after night he had to force himself to enter his waiting carriage, and night after night he drank himself into a stupor in the hopes it would end the aching dreams of Isa.

Of course, it was a wasted effort. There was not a moment that he did not search his surroundings for a futile sight of her golden hair or a night he did not wake with tortured dreams of holding her in his arms.

Not even the knowledge that he should be searching for an heiress could penetrate his dark mood. He was done with duty. If he could not have Isa, he would not have any bride.

“The devil take all women . . . ,” he muttered as he shoved past the servant who was attempting to block his way into his favorite club.

He needed a place to rest before hailing a cab and being returned home. He had long since dismissed his own carriage with the assurance that he intended to gamble away the night.

Ignoring the insistent entreaties from the servant that he halt a moment, Barth weaved his way up the steps and into a large room. It was not until an older, far more commanding servant stepped into his path that he came to an abrupt halt.

“My lord, perhaps you should come with me. I have some fresh coffee in the back.”

Barth frowned in an ominous manner. By gads, all he wished was a place to sit and a large decanter of brandy.

“Stand aside, Huber,” he commanded in loud tones.

The servant held up his hands in a pleading motion. “My lord, please.”

Barth swayed unsteadily. “Stand aside or be prepared to defend yourself.”

Intent on the servant, Barth was taken off guard as a large, raven-haired gentleman abruptly put his arm about his shoulders.

“Wickton, come along,” Lord Brasleigh commanded.

Thoroughly startled to be confronted by his friend, Barth allowed himself to be led across the room, not even protesting as Lord Challmond stepped forward and pressed him into the wing chair.

“Challmond? Brasleigh?” He blinked in muddled surprise. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Clearly the same thing you have been doing for quite some time,” Simon retorted in dry tones.

Barth turned toward him, his fuzzy gaze landing on the decanter beside the chair.

“Ah . . . brandy. Just what I need.”

“Coffee,” Philip corrected as he whisked the spirits out of reach and handed it to the hovering Huber. “Now, why are you not in Kent with your new bride?”

An unnaturally bitter expression twisted Barth’s countenance.

“There is no bride.”

Simon regarded his friend in surprise. “I thought the marriage was arranged?”

“As did I.” Barth’s head flopped onto the soft leather, his lids fluttering shut in weary pain. “Unfortunately, the bride has decided that she prefers another. And I must say I do not blame her. He is an absolutely brilliant gentleman without a fault to be discovered. And believe me, I have tried.”

He missed the knowing glance between his friends.

“That is rather a bad break, but she is not the only maiden in England. You will soon find another bride,” Philip drawled.

Barth slowly raised his gaze, not surprised when the two gentlemen winced at his darkened eyes and pain-lined countenance. He was well aware that he appeared like those poor wounded soldiers who knew beyond a doubt they were not making it home.

“Yes, there are no doubt any number of maidens willing to become the countess of Wickton.” He grimaced. “A pity I do not bloody well want them.”

Philip gave another humorless laugh. “Well, are we not a sad trio? What happened to the ‘Casanova Club’? Love them and leave them wishing for more?”

“It is all that Gypsy’s fault,” Barth muttered. “She and her devil’s curse.”

“Absurd.” Simon gave a shake of his head.

Barth stabbed him with a jaundiced glare. “Then you have not tumbled into the stormy seas of love?”

“Love?” Simon grimaced.

“My lord.”

With a startled blink, Simon turned to discover a servant hovering at his side with an anxious expression.

“Yes?”

“A message has been delivered for you.”

“Thank you.” Simon accepted the sealed note and broke it open with a faint frown.

Scanning the neatly scrawled message, Simon abruptly crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire.

“Damnation.”

“Troubles?” Philip demanded in concern.

“It is from Locky.”

“Locky?” Barth hiccuped. He recalled the solid, utterly dependable gentleman with a sense of pleasure. He had always enjoyed Locky’s company. “Where the devil is he?”

“Devonshire.” Simon clenched his fists. “I have to leave.”

“Wait.” Philip placed a hand on his shoulder, his expression somber. “Is there something that we can do to help?”

Simon met the silver gaze with a determined smile. “As a matter of fact, you can wish me luck,” he said as he came to a sudden decision. “I am off to win the heart of the woman I love.”

Barth watched his friend’s determined retreat with a dark frown.

“The woman he loves?” he slurred, grimacing at the now-familiar stab of pain. Surely he could not be jealous of Simon? “Poor sod. Where is that brandy?”

“I believe you have indulged enough for one evening.” Philip regarded him in a searching manner as he slowly returned to his seat.

Barth gave a bitter laugh. “I have not indulged nearly enough.”

Philip frowned. “What troubles you?”

“Isa Lawford troubles me,” Barth muttered.

“I thought you did not wish to wed the chit?”

He briefly recalled his selfish regrets at being forced down the aisle and his arrogant confidence that Isa was desperate to become his countess.

“I was a bloody fool.”

“Then you wish her to be your wife?”

Barth did not hesitate. “Yes.”

The silver eyes seemed to bore straight to his very heart.

“Do you love her?”

“Love?” Barth closed his weary eyes. “What is that?”

“How do you feel when you are near her?”

“As if my guts are being twisted into a knot,” he retorted with brutal honesty. “Is that love?”

“I certainly hope not,” Philip retorted in a shockingly harsh voice.

Barth was too enwrapped in his own misery to take notice of his friend’s peculiar manner, and slowly opening his eyes, he banged a fist on the arm of his chair.

“But the beastly thing is that I can not get her out of my mind,” he gritted in anger. “I came to London to enjoy my freedom. After all, I have spent a lifetime being smothered by the knowledge I would have to wed Isa Lawford to save the Wickton family from disgrace. I should be relieved at the thought she has refused to become my wife.”

“But you are not relieved?” Philip demanded.

Barth shuddered at the long days and even longer nights he had endured since his return to London.

“I have never been so bloody miserable in all my life,” he confessed. “Isa may no longer be my fiancée, but she refuses to leave me in peace.”

“Do not tell me,” Philip commanded, his elegant features twisting with an inner pain. “She is there every time you close your eyes. You smell her scent in the air, and when you awake in the morning, your arms ache because she is not lying beside you.”

Barth suddenly leaned forward, his expression one of disbelief.

“How did you know?” he demanded.

Philip’s features abruptly settled into their more familiar sardonic lines as he shrugged aside the question.

“What will you do?”

Barth clenched his hands. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I have been informed that a true gentleman should bow out with as much grace as possible.”

Philip narrowed his silver gaze. “I have never known you to give up, Wickton. Remember when we were surrounded by those damned Frenchies and our commander wanted to retreat? You pulled out your sword and demanded that we fight our way through.”

Of course Barth remembered. He had been so arrogantly confident that he could best any foe. It had taken a golden-haired maiden to prove he was vulnerable.

“I would rather face a regiment of Frenchies than a devious woman. At least I knew what was expected of me.”

Philip offered a sharp laugh. “Here. Here.”

Barth shook his head at his own stupidity. “You were wise not to become entangled in the dangerous lures of a female.”

“Yes, I am all that is wise,” Philip retorted in mocking tones. “What will you do?”

It was a question that Barth had refused to consider. Even with the knowledge that he was in debt and that Graystone would soon tumble into disrepair, he could not summon the energy to care.

“I do not know.”

“What do you want?”

Want? He wanted Isa as his wife. He wanted her in his arms, where she belonged. He wanted her to fill his nursery with children.

He wanted . . . he wanted . . . he wanted . . .

Bloody hell. He sounded as selfish and self-absorbed as Isa had branded him.

Lord, what had he done?

The sudden vision of her as he had last seen her rose to mind— her tiny face white with loss and her haunted amber eyes. A knifing pain ripped through his heart.

With all his determination to win, he had never thought what he was doing to Isa. He had convinced himself that it was for her own good, that he would make her a far better husband than Peter Effinton. But now, recalling that heartrending expression of loss on her face, he abruptly realized he had never truly thought of her at all.

It was just as his grandmother had accused.

It had only been his own needs that he had considered.

He had been a thorough blackguard.

“Barth?”

With a blink, Barth realized that his companion was regarding him with mounting concern.

“What do I want?” Barth rasped. “I want to see Isa smile.”

A thick silence fell as the two men regarded each other for a long moment, then Philip slowly gave a nod of his head.

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell.”

With an unsteady motion, Barth rose to his feet. Despite the brandy still muddling his thoughts, he was sharply conscious of what he had to do.

Regardless of the cost to himself.

Philip also rose, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Where are you going?”

Barth gave a short laugh. “To do the one good thing I may ever do in my miserable, self-indulgent life.”

* * *

Unaware she was being closely watched, Isa pushed the piece of egg from one side of her plate to the other. She then absently offered the slice of ham the same treatment. It was not that she particularly enjoyed toying with her food, but it was certainly preferable to attempting to eat the now-cold breakfast.

It had been the same every morning since Barth had announced that he was leaving for London. No matter how sternly she chided herself for behaving as a nitwit and assured herself she would never go into a romantic decline over any mere man, the truth was that she found it difficult to make herself rise every morning.

Her only hope was that this current distemper would eventually pass. After all, with Barth in London, she would not have to fear seeing him about the neighborhood. In time her pain would ease, and she would consider her future without the bleakness it currently held.

Her mother interrupted her dark musings with impatient tones. “Isa, you must eat something.”

Reluctantly, Isa lifted her head and met her mother’s worried gaze.

“I am not hungry, Mother.”

Louise gave a click of her tongue. “Well, I do not like to say this, my dear, but you are beginning to look positively haggard.”

Isa did not need her mother’s less-than-flattering statement to assure her that she was appearing far too pale and thin.

“Thank you.”

“I am only saying this for your own good. I should not like to see your beauty fade at such an early age.”

Isa’s lips twisted with a wry amusement. “You mean, before I can capture a husband.”

Her mother allowed a martyred expression to settle on her long face.

“Well, for that . . . I have quite given up hope that you will ever behave in a reasonable manner.”

“I know you too well, Mother.” Isa pushed aside her plate. “You will never give up hope of unloading me onto some unsuspecting nobleman.”

“Isa,” Louise protested at her blunt accusation.

Isa wrinkled her nose in regret. It was grossly unfair to take her ill humor out on her mother.

“Forgive me.” She slowly rose to her feet. “I believe I shall take a stroll in the garden.”

Only marginally mollified, Louise gave a faint sniff. “Stay out of the sun. Becoming freckled will hardly improve your appearance.”

“Very well, Mother.” Isa forced herself to maintain her annoyance. Leaving the breakfast room, Isa moved down the hall and into a small alcove that opened into the garden. Promptly forgetting her mother’s warning, she strolled past the garden and toward the lake. She simply wished to be away from the house and the well-intentioned but meddlesome company of her mother.

Perhaps she should consider visiting her great-aunt in York, she told herself with a sigh. A change of scenery just might take her mind off her troubled thoughts. If nothing else, it would remove her from her mother’s desperate search for another suitable son-in-law.

Bending down to pluck a blooming wildflower, Isa was unaware of the approaching rider. It was not until the sound of footsteps penetrated her muddled thoughts that she sharply glanced up to discover the tall, chestnut-haired gentleman standing mere feet away.

For a crazed moment, Isa thought she might actually swoon. Barth could not be here. He was in London searching for a wealthy bride. But there was no imagining his solid frame and the chiseled beauty of his countenance.

She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “Barth.”

He performed a slight bow, his oddly fevered gaze never leaving her pale face.

“Good morning, Isa.”

“What . . .” Her voice broke, and she forced herself to take a steadying breath. Dear lord, he was so magnificent, she acknowledged with a pang of loss. And she had missed him so desperately. “I did not realize you had returned to Graystone.”

“I returned only an hour ago.”

That explained why her mother was not leaping for joy.

“I see.”

He searched her overly thin features and the unmistakable shadows beneath her eyes.

“How are you?”

“Quite well,” she lied. She could hardly confess she was withering with unrequited love. Predictably, he was not fooled for a moment. “You look pale. And you’ve lost weight.”

A hint of annoyance stirred through her clinging lethargy. What right did he have to judge her appearance when he was entirely to blame?

“I have told you I am well. What are you doing here?”

“I have brought you something.”

“What?”

With oddly jerky movements, Barth pressed a thick packet into her hand. She was so startled by the unexpected motion, she did not even glance through the papers.

“What is this?”

“I have set up an allowance from my estate to go to Mr. Effinton.”

An allowance for Peter? It made no sense.

“I do not understand.”

“It will give Mr. Effinton a yearly income so that he will be able to set up his own establishment and continue his studies.” His voice was expressionless, but Isa did not miss the tension in his jaw or the manner in which his hands clenched and unclenched. “It is not much, but with a thrifty wife, he will no doubt scrape by.”

She slowly shook her head, feeling uncommonly dim-witted.

“But why? Why would you do this?”

For a moment, she thought he would refuse to answer; then, turning to gaze over the lake, he gave a restless shrug.

“When I went to London, I was determined to forget you.” He gave a short laugh. “Indeed, I wanted nothing more than to forget you even existed.”

Her heart twisted. “And did you?”

“No. It did not matter how many parties I attended or how many bottles of brandy I consumed, you kept haunting my every thought.”

Beneath her hand, her heart slammed to a painful halt. “I find that difficult to believe.”

A shockingly bleak expression tightened his profile. “No more than me. I kept hoping one morning I would awake and you would be gone. At last, I had to face the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That I love you.”

“Do not fear. I shall return to London and remain out of your life.” His hand reached out to lightly stroke her cheek. “I only ask one thing.”

Isa gave a violent shiver. “What?”

“That you be happy.”

She gave a choked sob, the ice in her heart beginning to thaw. Was it possible? Would he indeed go so far as to sponsor Peter so that she could wed the man she claimed to prefer?

Could he indeed love her?

She raised a hand to her trembling lips. “Oh, Barth . . .”

He frowned, his hands moving to clasp her shoulders. “For God’s sake, Isa, I did not come here to make you cry.”

“I do not want to marry Peter,” she shakily confessed, meeting the darkened hazel eyes. “It is you I love. Whom I have always loved, even when I did not wish to.”

“Isa,” he breathed, his hands tightening on her shoulders. For a moment, their gazes locked, as if each searching for assurance that their love had returned; then Barth abruptly pulled her into his arms. “My dearest Isa, tell me you will be my wife.”

With her head pressed to his chest, Isa listened to the racing beat of his heart.

His wife.

For so long she had battled to avoid such a fate. Now a smile of deep pleasure curved her lips.

“Yes.”

“Thank God.” His lips pressed to her forehead. “I did not know how I would live without you.”

She tilted back her head, shocked by the lingering pain that smoldered in the depths of his eyes.

“Were you really going to allow me to wed Peter?”

His gaze slowly lowered to the brilliant smile that shimmered through her tears.

“To see this smile, Isa, I would travel to the gates of hell. But . . .” His voice dropped to a husky pitch as he slowly lowered his head. “I would rather find heaven in your arms.”

Definitely heaven, Isa dreamily conceded as his mouth found her lips in a kiss that made her heart trip in a most provocative manner. Tentatively, her own arms raised to encircle his neck, and she heard him give a satisfied moan deep in his throat.

With much reluctance, he at last pulled back to study the sheer happiness glowing upon her tiny face.

“It was just as the Gypsy promised,” he softly quoted.

Isa offered him a shy smile. “So her blessing did work, after all.”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Yes, indeed, and I have just forfeited a thousand pounds.”

She gave a startled blink. “What?”

“Nothing of importance.” A fierce heat flamed in the hazel eyes, making her knees oddly weak. “I was just about to find heaven. . . .”