The Heart Denied (19 page)

He grimaced. "Men like me?"

"Yes. You're not unlike Horace, and he found great contentment in matrimony. I thought you'd settle quite comfortably."

"Did you." Thorne couldn't keep the steel out of his voice. "And how did you suppose my wife would take to wedded bliss?"

Caroline shrugged. "She is more likely to chafe at the change, but..." She lowered her gaze, then looked coyly at Thorne through her long lashes. "Under the tutelage of an affectionate husband, she might soon bend and mold to his will."

Thorne suppressed a harsh laugh at her faulty theory. But knowing she spoke from experience, he felt his groin tighten. He could all too clearly imagine Caroline "bending and molding."

Fearing his eyes would betray him, he shifted his gaze to a portrait on the wall. "I shan't presume to know the workings of my wife's mind," he said brusquely. "Her reasons for failing to respond are known only to her." He met Caroline's eyes again. "May I escort you back to the drawing room?"

"Thank you, but I believe I've troubled you enough for one evening," she said coolly, and walked away before he could say another word.

* * *

Watching the sun rise to a chorus from the meadowlarks and orioles in the pine-scented hangers bordering the valley, Thorne eyed a stand of weeping willow at the river's edge. The mists would be lifting by the time he grabbed a trout pole from the potting shed. Perhaps he could hook one or two for breakfast.

He stopped short in the gallery. Beside a closed door sat two small trunks he recognized. As he wondered what their owner was up to, she opened the door and stepped out, barely glancing his way.

"Where are you going?"

She bent down and locked the trunks. "Home, if you must know."

"Why, may I ask?"

"Because I shouldn't have come." Pocketing the key, she smoothed the tiered black lace at her elbow and turned to face him. "I am in mourning, after all."

"Bollocks. You're leaving because of me."

"I've left a note," she said as if he hadn't spoken, her expression aloof. "I wouldn't think of insulting the Townsends by leaving without word." She went back inside her room.

She returned with a folded parchment, only to find Thorne blocking her doorway.

"Don't go," he said. "Especially not on my account."

Caroline narrowed her eyes. "I can see you've passed a bad night. I might have sympathized before our talk in the parlor, but I'll be damned if I try drawing you out again. Stay inside your miserable shell and rot, I'm going home."

She gasped as Thorne grabbed her hand. Apparently too stunned to protest, she watched him take the note she'd written and wad it up in his fist. "Why, of all the arrogance!" Her eyes snapped. "What bloody difference does it make to you if I stay or go?"

"Stay. Please."

His unveiled entreaty seemed to stun her. She blinked, found her voice. "Perhaps
you
should go home."

"I'd rather not."

"Then I shall stay." She looked surprised at her own words, then vexed; she'd obviously meant to be harder on him.

Thorne headed downstairs for the potting shed, but only after he had set Caroline's trunks back inside her room--and only then because she drew the line at letting him watch her unpack. 

* * *

"I do not understand how he can desert you again so soon, my lady. First London, and now Chigwell."

Lady Neville elevated her head and fixed her eyes on the road ahead. "His lordship did not desert me, Hobbs. But your concern is well marked."

Hobbs' gaze fell upon his greased boots and coarse woolen cloak. Leaving Saint Michael's after Sunday Mass, where he'd stared the whole service long at Lady Neville from the rear of the church, he was prolonging their time together by keeping their horses at a trot.

But only until lightning ripped the sky. As Lady Neville shrieked like a banshee at the earsplitting crackle that followed, Abigail bolted.

Cursing, Hobbs dug his heels into Bartholomew. In a torrent of rain, he bore down on Lady Neville, who had lost the reins and clung to Abigail's mane instead. Hobbs grabbed the mare's harness, hauled her rider onto his own mount, then shouted a command and smacked Abigail's haunch to send her galloping home.

Shivering and soaked, Lady Neville huddled against him. Hobbs managed with some difficulty to open his lanolin-rich cloak and wrap it snug around both of them. Clasping the mistress in one burly arm, he kicked Bartholomew into a canter.

Steam poured from the gelding's nostrils while the air grew pungent with the smells of wet leather and horsehair. Hobbs felt his shirt turn damp against Lady Neville's soaked frock, but knew he was beyond any danger of taking a chill, what with those ripe curves molded against him and only two or three layers of fabric between. She, on the other hand, was drenched to the bone and terrified, risking illness or worse. It was that which prompted his hoarse shout for help as he carried her into the Hall.

While Bridey hurried to brew fresh tea and scolded Hobbs as if he'd caused the thunderstorm, Byrnes rushed in to fetch her mistress away to dry blankets and a roaring fire.

"Let me carry her to her chambers, or at least up the stairs," Hobbs insisted. Bridey refused, saying he'd done quite enough as it was.

Back in the stables, he went about his chores mechanically, not daring to stop and dwell on what he'd realized in the last hour.

He was falling in love with his master's wife.

* * *

Midday found the entire Townsend party at the river, a feast in tow. Wearing shawls in the early September air, several ladies paddled rowboats about under the huge willows, while Bernice and the men dropped lines further upriver.

"They love the crickets," she enthused to Thorne. "But you must hook them through their bodies. Their little heads will come off faster than Ann Boleyn's."

"Bernice," her father growled.

"Oh, Papa, you're just cross because I've hooked two to your one. Try my crickets!"

"I've fished these waters since long before you were born, young lady, so 'tisn't likely you've anything to teach me," he retorted over the other men's chuckles.

Down the bank, Lady Townsend, abandoning the boats for her tatting, shook her head. "They're at it again."

Tying the rowboat to a stake, Caroline squinted upriver at Bernice and her father. "They seem quite fond of one another, for all their spats."

"One wouldn't know what to do without the other," Lady Townsend admitted.

Caroline gasped. "Why, she's just slapped Mister Dearbourne upside the head with a fish!"

Lady Townsend clicked her tongue. "She does haul them in rather vigorously. Well, Mister Dearbourne will take it in stride and have a good laugh. He is quite charmed by her, as so many gentlemen seem to be." She kept her eyes on her tatting. "Lord Neville, for instance, is extraordinarily fond of her. The sister he never had, I suppose. Just between us, I think she reminds him of a girl he once knew."

"Lena," Caroline said without thinking.

"Yes, Lena." Pausing, Lady Townsend looked up from her work. "He's mentioned her?"

"Only in passing."

"Oh, I doubt that. You must know him better than I'd supposed."

Caroline only smiled.

"Well," Lady Townsend went on as she resumed her tatting, "then I don't mind telling you that we thought this Lena had spoiled Thorne for other prospects, and hence were quite surprised when he decided to marry. If he dotes on his bride even half as much as on our Bernice, she'll be a happy wife, indeed."

Caroline held her tongue; was the woman blind? How could she begin
to think that there was any 'doting' being done by either of the Nevilles? One look at Thorne should tell her otherwise.

As Lady Townsend turned to compare stitches with Mistress Grindall, Caroline wandered up the bank toward the fishing party.

* * *

Bernice snorted. "Look at Richard. Does he really think he's teaching her to fish? Mistress Sutherland is no dolt, I can tell you."

Thorne smiled to himself at the girl's perception.

"I'll wager she could put him to shame," Bernice went on, "yet she looks at the bait like she's never seen such a disgusting thing in all her life. Ha! Now I see why Miss Victoria Clifton can't get so much as a nod from my brother. Oh Richard, you
are
dreaming!" she said with a laugh.

"Hush, Bernie, he'll hear you," chided her father, and something in his tone seemed to sober her.

Thorne slid his gaze downriver, all the while silently denying his interest in the little fishing lesson. He continued to deny it even as he sauntered down the bank in that direction as if he hadn't a care in the world.

* * *

"I've come to inquire as to Lady Neville's condition."

"What?" Bridey stared at Hobbs as if he'd grown horns. "Her ladyship's condition is no concern of yours, Toby."

"I'm at fault. I saw the storm coming. I should have insisted she stay with the priest, then fetched Dobson with the coach."

The old cook nodded curtly. "Aye, so ye should've. But she fares well enough, and for that ye can thank your lucky stars, 'cause if the master was home, ye'd never have took her to church today."

"I accompanied Lady Neville at her
request." Defiance crept into Hobbs' voice. "I'm obliged to obey her wishes in the master's absence, just as you are."

Sighing, Bridey shuffled to the hearth. "Aye. Enough said, then, and no real harm done." She turned the spit. "Go on now, off with ye," she scolded, as if he were a boy again, loitering about the kitchen in hopes of an extra meat pie. Watching the proud way he carried himself as he left, she felt uneasy.

A body heard things in a great house like this, things that over the years might be left alone but weren't necessarily forgotten. And something was brewing, she could feel it--something that had lain dormant, like unleavened dough, until someone had come along and added yeast to the mix.

And that someone, she feared, was Lady Neville.

* * *

"
Now
what shall I do?" Caroline said breathlessly, having hooked a fair-sized trout on her line.

Thorne moved behind her and reached around to grip the bamboo pole between her hands. "Steady. It won't jump into the corf on its own. You must leave it a bit of slack and let it play some, then give it a tug and haul it in a tad more."

She leaned back for leverage; Thorne felt her shiver as his breath touched her bare neck. "Are you cold?" he murmured.

"No, just...excited."

Was her voice a shade huskier than usual? Thorne's pulse accelerated. Suddenly Caroline cried out, her ill-timed yank bringing the fish flying out of the water. Thorne chuckled as the poor creature swung into her skirts and she shrieked again.

"Bloody Hades," Bernie groused further up the bank. "Would someone toss that woman in a boat without oars and give it a good shove?"

"Bernice Margaret Townsend, keep your tongue in your head or go sit beside your mother. Mistress Sutherland is our guest. You will treat her with respect."

"Humph!" Bernice watched from a distance, hands on hips, as her brother and Thorne showed Caroline how to remove the hook and place the fish in the wicker corf. When Caroline scrubbed her hands in the water and looked around for something to dry them, Bernice doubled over with laughter.

"Actress or not, I was wrong about her," she gasped, wiping tears from her eyes. "The only thing that woman ever fished for is a man!"

* * *

"Thank Providence you're not ill, Milady. But perhaps we should wait until tomorrow. Darkness falls within the hour."

"Then we must start now. I want to reach the hollow before dark."

"Wait here." Excitement thickened Hobbs' voice. He'd no idea why it was so important to ride to Beck's Hollow before nightfall, but he would manage it or die in the attempt.

The sun hovered just above the horizon as they reached the south bank. Lady Neville dismounted before an old ash tree. While Hobbs looked on from his horse, she touched some scarring in the scaly bark.

"T and L," she murmured.

Hobbs drew Bartholomew closer. "What is it, my lady?"

"A heart. 'T' is my husband, no doubt." She turned to Hobbs. "Who might 'L' be?" You knew his lordship as a boy."

"He was fourteen when I came to the stables, no mere boy, my lady."

"Then you've no notion?" Her face fell like that of a disappointed child.

"No, my lady."

She went back to studying the crude carvings.

"The moon is on the rise, my lady. Shall we climb the ridge and ride to the clearing? The circle of stones I showed you is even more intriguing by moonlight."