In only six weeks, Isla Ramsey is due to marry Henry Northrup, the sixth Earl of Sydney. But she remains haunted by memories of the dashing Hugh Courtney, the Marquess Pierce. The handsome aristocrat had hinted at forever and then tossed her aside, leaving Isla with few viable options. Now, as she awaits her new fiancé’s arrival from London, she rides her horse past Hugh’s estate at Hazelwood every day, pining for a man who was never truly hers. Hugh Courtney may have left Isla’s life, but he can’t erase her from his thoughts. When he rescues her from a sudden snowstorm, they are forced to take shelter together at his private estate. In such close quarters there is no escaping each other. Yet no man wants a reckless wife—or a woman promised to another. As fate draws Isla further into his world, Hugh vows to keep her out of his bedchamber. However, some vows are meant to be broken . . . The Wayward Bride By Anna Bradley KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2019 Anna Bradley All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5161-0948-7 CHAPTER 1 Huntington Lodge, Buckinghamshire March 1818 A creaky floorboard was the worst thing that could befall a sneak. Isla Ramsey didn't like to think of herself as the sneaky sort, but when the floorboard under her boot squawked in protest, she instinctively threw a guilty glance over her shoulder. Hyacinth wasn't there, thank goodness. Over the past few weeks her sister-in-law had taken to following her about like a Bow Street Runner after a thief, and for all her sweet, gentle ways, Hyacinth had the instincts of a predator. Isla crept forward again, wincing as the floorboard shrieked like an outraged mouse. How was it possible every floorboard in this house had suddenly developed an alarming squeak? They'd all been perfectly silent until she tried to creep across them. Her mouth set into a stubborn line. It was utter nonsense she was forced to sneak about in the first place. It wasn't as if she were going out to pick a pocket, or set a fire, or kick a puppy. She wasn't doing anything wrong. It was a morning ride, for pity's sake, nothing more. Surely there was nothing so shocking in that? Why, people all over England rode every day, and no one asked them to explain themselves. She cast another nervous glance around, but there was no one about. Perhaps fate had deigned to smile on her at last, because she made it across the entryway to the front door without being taken up by the Huntington Lodge watch. She'd just nip out the door, make her way to the stables, and be gone before anyone even realized she'd — "Isla Ramsey, don't you dare set foot outside that door!" So close. "I mean it, Isla. I forbid it!" Hyacinth's voice was as stern as Isla had ever heard it, but when she turned to face her sister-in-law, she couldn't prevent a grin. "You can't forbid me to do something when you're wearing that gown, Hyacinth. It's not at all forbidding." Hyacinth frowned and smoothed a hand down her dainty skirts. "What do you mean? What's wrong with my gown?" "It's pink." Isla moved a step closer and squinted at Hyacinth's bodice. "Blossom pink, with sweet little purple flowers all over it." Hyacinth crossed her arms over her chest. "What of it? I don't see what my gown has to do with you riding out today." "You look as if you've just tumbled from a tray of sweets. Really, Hyacinth, you can't play the despot when you look like one of Cook's teacakes." Isla offered her sister-in-law a winning smile to soothe any ruffled feelings, but Hyacinth was having none of it. "Very well, Isla. I can't force you to listen to me, but you don't need me to tell you it's dangerous to ride during a violent storm." "Violent storm? Oh, nonsense, Hyacinth. It's not even raining." "Only because it's too cold for rain, and it's growing colder by the minute. You may trust me when I say that once the skies open, we'll be pummeled with ice and snow." Isla glanced out the window and bit her lip. A fierce wind was blowing ominous dark gray clouds across the sky, and even her thick wool riding habit was no match for the icy drafts stealing under her skirts. "Oh, very well. I grant you it's not an ideal day for a ride, but I won't be gone long. I only intend to go as far as the main road, and then I'll turn right back." "Look at the clouds, Isla!" Hyacinth pointed at the patch of leaden sky visible through the window set high above the door. "It will be snowing before you've even reached the stables, never mind the road!" "Perhaps, but I've ridden in blustery weather before. I am from northern Scotland, if you recall. Come, Hyacinth. It isn't far, and I want to see if I can spot Lord Sydney's carriage on the road." Dear Lord Sydney. She'd written, asking him to come, and he'd written back, promising to set out from London at once. He was the dearest of men, and the doubts and chaos in her head always calmed when Sydney was about. What more could a lady ask of her betrothed than that? "Lachlan and Fin