The Heart Denied (15 page)

Smiling, he came to his feet. "I'm quite ready and willing to follow Milady's orders, but if it worries you to kiss this maid, I hereby resign my situation and
reassign
myself to the office of your husband--in hopes that you'll give him similar orders."

Gwynneth tilted her head, her smile turning coy. "Aye, I should much rather be kissed by my husband."

"Then kissed you shall be." He leaned over her.

"Wait," she whispered, her breath warm and promisingly moist on his face.

He nuzzled the tender skin beneath her jaw. "Aye, love, what is it?"

"First you must tell me something."

"Anything." He drew back, only to see her eyes narrow ominously upon his.

"I want to know," she said in a cutting tone, "why the Combs slut has yet to leave this house."

Stunned, Thorne stared at his wife--this woman who had in an instant transformed from Eve to malevolent serpent. "
Jesu
," he whispered, then swore aloud in a choked voice,
"Jesu Christi!"

He shoved himself away by the arms of the chair and strode to the window, where he threw the sashes wide and filled his lungs with soggy air. The baying of a hound and the chirping of late-summer insects filled the silence until he trusted himself to speak again. "You've a way of broad-siding a man, my lady. Hereafter, I shall beware your playful moods."

"My moods aside," Gwynneth retorted, "I've a right to know why that woman is still here. And I've a right to hear it without your blasphemy."

Thorne turned to face her. "I'm not in the habit of explaining myself, my language, or my actions," he said with a scowl, "but I'll make a partial exception this time. I've reassigned Combs topstairs. Essentially banned her, if you will, to the servants' quarters. Even her meals will be taken there." His gaze turned withering. "She'll not be available to cause embarrassment. For anyone."

Gwynneth shot up from her seat and squared her shoulders. "Just a few days ago, you accused me of undermining your authority over the servants. Now you've done the same. I dismissed the girl, and you revoked that dismissal with no warning."

"There is a phrase used in the practice of law, known as 'pre-existent condition'--an apt enough term in Combs' case," Thorne said sharply. "Meaning to say, my lady, that Combs' dilemma was brought to my attention
before
you joined this household, and that I'd arranged acceptable circumstances for all involved."

"Why keep her?" Gwynneth's lip curled. "She's of no use in her condition."

"I beg to differ. Our seamstress is losing her eyesight. She's taken Combs on, and as all the sewing is done topstairs, neither you nor anyone else will be burdened with the growing evidence of her pregnancy."

"Thorne!"

"What, I've shocked you again? No more than you've shocked me, my lady, by your lack of pity."

"Pity?" Gwynneth planted her hands on her hips and leaned forward. "
Pity
is what I feel when I see a child foraging for scraps of food in the back alleys of London.
Pity
is what I feel when I see Arthur coming from the forest with a slain buck over his shoulders. Pity is
not
," she said with a toss of her head, "what I feel for a woman who raises her
skirts at the first sign of attention from a man!"

She stepped back quickly as Thorne advanced on her. "And is pity what you feel," he said in a voice cold with fury, "when you consider the future of the innocent child she carries? Must that child be starving in the streets before your
pity
is 'roused?"

Gwynneth's eyes filled with tears, whether for the child or herself, Thorne had no inkling. Nor did he care.

"Do you," he pressed, "foresee any quality of life for the child, with no father to claim it, if its mother is thrown out on the streets to make a living in whatever way she can?"

"She's already proven herself a whore...let her make her
living
as such!"

No sooner were the words out than Gwynneth seemed to realize she'd gone too far. Scooting behind the nearest chair, she raised an arm to shield herself from what she saw in Thorne's eyes, and in doing so was transformed again, this time from shrew to little girl.

The effect disoriented Thorne; he was a gun on the verge of firing and suddenly emptied of powder. Never had he felt such anger, especially at a woman; its venom made his stomach roil. He backed up a few steps, then turned and strode away--from her, from the very air she breathed. In a haze of conflicting emotions, he heard the chamber door, and vaguely wondered whether it was he or or his wife who'd slammed it behind him.

* * *

Elaine Combs froze, book in hand, and held her breath as she listened for something to follow the crash overhead. Fairly certain it had come from Lady Neville's chambers, she wondered if the new bride was ill.
No business of mine
, she reminded herself grimly.
Marginally ailing or at death's door, she will tolerate my presence no more.

No sense in fretting, Elaine told herself. She had a roof over her head, a full belly and a bed in which to sleep--and all because of
him
. She'd known that immediately from the snide expression on Dame Carswell's face when the woman came to interrupt her packing. Elaine's heart had soared for one joyful moment before she realized that a situation topstairs would provide only an occasional glimpse of Wycliffe Hall's master.

She returned the book to its shelf and took another down, then paused again as she heard a heavy tread in the hall. It neared the library. Elaine's heart began to race.

The candle!
She flew across the room to a chair near the dying fire, licked her fingers and snuffed the wick, then looked desperately for a place to hide. She had no time. She threw herself into the chair, gathered her garments up, and tucked her feet beneath her so that nothing of her would be visible from the hall. Heart thumping wildly, she clutched the book to her chest like a shield.

The latch clicked. A hinge squeaked as one of the double doors opened, then closed again.

She waited for a footfall. None came. Perhaps the intruder hadn't entered. Perhaps he or she had gone on after all. Yet no steps sounded in the hall. She was about to peer around the high-backed chair when, somewhere in the darkness behind her, a man quietly cleared his throat.

Elaine's heart pounded in her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought off a hysterical giggle at the notion she was better hidden if unable to see.

Footsteps commenced. Measured, unhurried, they approached and passed her chair. The stir of air wafted a familiar scent her way. Fear and excitement surged through her veins; still she kept her eyes shut tight. She heard the fire iron scrape the hearth, wood fall heavily onto the grate. Unless the intruder was blind, he would see her as soon as he turned around.

The fire iron dropped into its stand. Silk whispered on silk, no doubt a sleeve brushing against a garment. And then--utter silence. She had been discovered. She held her breath, sure she would either faint or explode.

"Are you sleeping?"

She'd have known that low, rich tone anywhere. She peeped through the slits of her eyes at the voice's owner. Little more than a silhouette against the reviving flames, his face was all but concealed, whereas she knew hers was clearly visible.

"I...I hope I didn't frighten you, M'lord," was all she could think to say, blinking rapidly as she opened her eyes.

"'Twould appear quite the reverse, Combs."

He moved away. Seizing the opportunity to rouse her paralyzed limbs and reclaim some dignity, Elaine untwisted herself and stood, then hastily smoothed her woolen cloak over her shift and wrapper.

He'd gone to a corner of the room. He stood in the dimness with his back to her, perhaps having forgotten her presence already. She set the book silently on the table and made ready to leave.

"Stay where you are." He hadn't so much as cocked his head.

Lacing her fingers in front of her and waiting with outward calm, she heard glass clink from the corner. He obviously knew his way in the dark.

He strolled nearer the fire, a bottle glinting dark-red in one hand and an empty glass in the other. He filled it before glancing her way.

Painfully aware of the strange sight she presented--nightcap askew, hair tumbling to her waist, and a width of worn muslin sagging below the hem of her gray cloak--she nonetheless stood quietly poised while he tossed back the contents of his glass in one greedy swallow. He appeared still dressed for the evening meal, long past, his waitcoast however missing and his sleeves rolled to the elbows of his waterspotted shirt.

She had no time to ponder that oddity, instead giving a violent start as he banged his glass down on the table and turned brooding eyes upon her.

"I...I am sorry for trespassing, M'lord."

"Is that what you call it."

She hoped he didn't hear her gulp. "It won't happen again, M'lord."

His gaze swept her from head to toe. "So, what have you been up to? Why the nightclothes under your cloak?" His eyes narrowed. "You've been outdoors at this hour?"

Elaine stiffened. "You're suggesting I've been to see Hobbs, M'lord?"

His silence was answer enough.

"I have not seen the man since the day he spurned me," she said firmly. "I only dressed so because..." Her words faded into embarrassed silence.

"You knew the room would be cold," Lord Neville ventured, "that the fire would soon be out." Eyeing her intently, he awaited her nod, then spoke again. "You've come here before?"

"Yes, M'lord."

"Once, twice?"

She steeled herself. "Many times, M'lord."

He filled his glass again. "And what do you read here?"

Elaine searched his face for some sign of disapproval, but found none. "All manner of things, M'lord. There are so many wonderful volumes...but of course you know precisely what is on these shelves. How stupid of me."

Thorne's mouth turned up at one corner. "I'm surprised I haven't discovered you here before."

Elaine almost smiled. "You very nearly have, sir, more than once."

"Do you come every night?"

She shook her head. "I used to, before you returned from university."

"I see. Then I spoiled it for you."

"Oh, no, M'lord!" Mortified, she pressed a hand to her chest. "I meant no such thing...I only meant it was easier..."

"Go on."

"'Twas easier to steal away here then, knowing no one would be about because no one used the room then, not even during the day, though I cleaned it regularly, which is how I came to be so interested in its contents, as I've always loved to read." She drew a breath. Good heavens, he must think her absolutely giddy. At least his brooding frown had disappeared, indeed his eyes seemed to twinkle in the firelight.

"So," he said, amusement in his voice, "my return forced you to play a game of cat and mouse to do your reading."

"Yes," Elaine admitted ruefully. "But I am less clever than I supposed, since tonight I thought..." Encouraged by Lord Neville's amiable expression, she went on. "I thought that you and her ladyship had retired for the night, that I was quite safe in coming."

He smiled briefly, but the light had gone out of his eyes. "Aye, well, I hadn't planned to be in this room at all tonight." Abruptly he quaffed the contents of his glass, then glanced at the mantel clock. "You'd better get some rest, Combs, and not only for yourself." He glanced at her midsection.

Elaine struggled to keep tears at bay; sometimes she wished he were less kind. "If you please, M'lord, I must say something before I go."

"Can it wait?" He was filling his glass again.

"No, M'lord, it cannot. Nor should it," she added firmly, seeing his cocked eyebrow.

"Say it, then, quickly."

"I should like to express my gratitude for the situation you've given me, M'lord. Your kindness is unique among the nobility. I am indebted to you." She dropped a curtsey at his inquiring look.

"You've definite opinions, then, Combs, in regard to nobility."

"M'lord?"

"You say my kindness is unique. You've been treated less kindly by someone of my circumstance?"

Elaine hesitated. "I would rather not say, M'lord."

He studied her face. "Well, you needn't feel indebted to me. Your new situation wasn't especially created, nor am I particularly kind. The seamstress was in need. However, if the work in some way lessens your burdens just now, I'm glad for it."

She nodded, grasping the diplomacy behind his denial. "Thank you, M'lord. May I pose one question?" At his silence, she boldly continued. "How does her ladyship feel about my staying on?"

Was there a flicker of ire in that inscrutable expression? If so, it fled as quickly as it appeared.

"I've explained it to Lady Neville," he said, "as I did to you just now. She sees the wisdom of my decision and will abide by it."

Elaine curtsied again. "Good night, M'lord." Approaching the library doors, she halted, arrested by his voice--and its studied indifference.

"Combs, a good seamstress should value her fingers, and not be chilling them to the bone over a book every night."

Her heart sank. "Yes, M'lord." She reached for the door handle.

"Henceforward," he said brusquely, "regardless of my whereabouts, a fire shall burn here throughout the evening."

* * *

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Milady?"

Gwynneth shaded her eyes. "Have you seen his lordship this morning?"

"Aye, Milady. He rode early this morning to meet Pennington for rounds. Shall I fetch him for you?"

"No! No, never mind. Thank you, Hobbs."