The Heart Denied (22 page)

Speechless, she felt her cheeks burning.

Thorne downed the last of his wine, then leaned back in his chair, his eyes barely visible through slit lids. "So, again you've defied convention--and my wishes--by bullying my stable master into acting as your personal escort."

"No bullying was necessary!" Gwynneth cried, then regretted her outburst as Thorne gave her a crooked smile.

"No," he said quietly. "I thought not."

* * *

Gwynneth had long gone to bed when Thorne entered the east hall. Passing the library, he fixed frowning eyes on the darkness beneath the doors.

Despite the late hour, he found the housekeeper in her office. "Why is there no fire in the library?" he demanded.

First curtseying, Dame Carswell clasped her hands behind her rigid back. "Lady Neville's orders, M'lord."

"What the deuce?" Thorne's frown turned to a scowl. "Explain."

"Her ladyship discovered Combs there late one evening. She forbade her any further use of the room, and made it quite clear to me that no fire is to burn there at such an hour."

"Did she." Fury snaked through Thorne's veins and seeped into his low voice. "Is that why you are up and about so late? Guarding my library against intruders?"

Dame Carswell swallowed hard. "Her ladyship threatened me with dismissal, M'lord, should it happen again-"

"Do my orders not supersede hers? Is your dismissal not up to me?"

The housekeeper lifted her chin defensively. "Begging your pardon, M'lord, but 'tis customary for the lady of the house to handle such matters. She was quite lenient by most standards. Combs had no business trespassing or being about at that hour."

Something about Thorne's face must have betrayed his helpless anger--or perhaps he only imagined the tiny gleam in the housekeeper's eye, the slight curl in her lip.

"Will that be all, M'lord?"

"No, Carswell, there is one thing more."

"Yes, M'lord?"

"Get to bed."

* * *

It was nearly noon Friday before estate business was out of the way and Gwynneth's whereabouts could be confirmed. With Jennings' assurance she was gone to the draper's in Northampton, an immediate summons was sent topstairs.

One look at Elaine Combs, as she entered his study, told Thorne that she would gloss over the incident. Impatience prevented the usual polite greeting, but did nothing to slow his quickening pulse.

"Close the door and take a seat." As she did so without looking at him, Thorne stole a glance to see her skirts still hiding her growing belly.

Serene gray eyes rose to meet quizzical blue. "Welcome home, M'lord."

"Thank you," he said, and the ice in his marrow began to thaw for the first time in days. "I shan't keep you long away from your duties, but I
will
have an account of the incident in the library."

He saw it again--the guarded look in her eyes, the subtle straightening of her already erect back.

"Do not even consider telling me less than the whole story," he warned her. "Should I later hear of something you've omitted, you'll find yourself back in this room in a trice. You'll also find my mood far less gracious."

She nodded.

He went to stand at the window and turned his back to her, hoping she'd speak more frankly if spared his penetrating scrutiny.

In a voice so low that he sometimes had to cock an ear or ask her to repeat something, Combs recounted the event. Two long pauses interrupted her, one before she told him what Gwynneth had said to her and the other just before telling how she'd fainted dead away at Gwynneth's feet.

Thorne felt his wrath building beyond reason. Reminding himself he wanted Combs to suffer no repercussions, he took deep, quiet breaths. By the time she'd finished and he turned to look at her, the heat had almost left his face.

"No real harm was done, then, to you or the child?" His gaze pierced the maid through; no amount of deep breathing could help that. Oddly enough, it never seemed to rattle her as it did other people.

"Only to my foolish pride, M'lord."

"I suppose reinstating your library privileges is of no use. The experience is spoiled for you...you'd never come again."

She said nothing, but he saw confirmation in her eyes.

"Return to your duties, then. I thank you for your candor." He made his tone brusque, all business. "Consider the matter closed."

"Aye, M'lord." Lowering her eyes, she curtseyed and took her leave--for once without being delayed.

"How do you think it looks to my servants when you come barging into my house in your stableman's rags?"

"I don't give a rat's arse how it looks to that old hag you call a maid. As for Ashby and your cook, I can charm the garters right off them, rags
or
riches. And it's stable
master
now."

Caroline plopped into a velvet chair, her skirts flouncing.

"Might I sit as well?" Hobbs said with a mocking air.

"No, you may not! Say what you've come for. More money to keep your tongue in your head?"

"Not nearly that simple, dear sister." He smiled.

"What, then?"

"I've come to strike a bargain." Sitting down to spite her, he saw her eyes snap with anger. "When might you visit Wycliffe Hall again?" he said quickly.

She looked taken aback. "I...I haven't been invited."

"And why should that stop you?"

Her eyes fell. She fussed with the lace tiers on her sleeve. "His lordship and I," she said with obvious reluctance, "had words."

"All the more reason to visit. To apologize."

"Apologize?" She looked up at him grimly. "On a cold day in Hades, perhaps. 'Tis
I
who deserves the apology."

"Lady Neville is your friend. Mightn't she issue an invitation despite the rift?"

Caroline's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps. Why this sudden interest in my itinerary?"

"Lady Neville needs a friend just now." Hobbs put on a somber face. "Her marriage is not a happy one."

"How could you know that?"

"She told me so."

Caroline's bark of laughter ended in a sneer. "She confided in you? That prissy little saint? Tell the truth, Toby."

"Watch how you speak of her, Caroline. She's been kind to you, she deserves better than your peculiar brand of friendship. Sadly, I fear you're the only friend she has."

"My, my, such devotion. Coveting the master's wife, are we?" Caroline's taunting smile turned to a throaty laugh. "My dear boy, Gwynneth herself can tell you--and probably will--that there is a commandment against such 'wickedness'!"

"You're treading quicksand, Caroline," he warned, his face flushing.

Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God...I don't believe it...you're in
love
with the girl! Oh, this is too bloody rich for words!" Scathing laughter doubled her over.

Hobbs leapt from his chair to close the doors, then turned on his sister. "Shut up," he snarled, grasping her chin in one hand and jerking her face up to his, "before I break your precious neck!"

Caroline glared at him.

"I'll convince her to invite you," he said curtly. "Once there, I want you to do and say everything within your power to divide her and Neville--artfully, mind you." He let go her chin with a contemptuous little shove. "You can do it, artifice is one of your greatest talents."

Caroline furiously wiped her chin with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. "I don't see how."

"Don't play the ingenue with me. I can tell Neville fancies you. With your powers" --he leered at her bosom before meeting her eyes again-- "of feminine persuasion, you'll have him off Lady Neville's trail in no time. There are worse things," he reminded her with a cunning look, "than being a nobleman's mistress. Besides, landed gentry often marry daughters of
rich
merchants
nowadays." He winked slyly.

"And how would this little sabotage serve
you
?" Caroline snapped.

"That is more than you need know. Suffice it to say that in return for your efforts, be they sincere and successful, I shall refrain from any future extortion of your considerable funds and will continue to keep your humble origins--and mine--to myself."

"Listen to you! Such eloquence, now that you aspire to seduce your master's wife! One would think you were educated with gentry..." Her words trailed off.

"That I
am
gentry." Hobbs smiled at her sulky expression. "You'll forgive my efforts then, sweet sister, to at least
speak
as though I was tutored in my father's house. You see, we've each our aspirations, haven't we?...though mine aren't entirely counterfeit."

Glowering at him, she replied crossly, "Very well. Should I receive an invitation to visit Wycliffe Hall, I'll accept." She narrowed her eyes. "Then let the games begin."

Hobbs smile took a malicious twist. "And may the best man win."

"Caroline's arriving Wednesday for a visit," Gwynneth announced over supper Friday evening.

Thorne ignored the trip in his heartbeat. "I'm surprised she could make the journey on such short notice."

"She seemed glad at the prospect," Gwynneth said, adding peevishly, "and though you had to suffer her presence an additional three days, I have not seen her since the wedding."

"You should have gone to the Townsends' house party," Thorne said evenly. "The two of you could have visited to your heart's content."

The look on Gwynneth's face was priceless. "You never said she was a guest!"

He shrugged. "Out of sight, out of mind."

"You knew she was invited?"

"No. It seems Townsend met up with her days beforehand and invited her. By social standards she should have refused, but Caroline doesn't seem particularly bound by convention."

Gwynneth bristled. "You are so quick to criticize her."

"'Twas simply an observation, my lady."

"Did you pass some time with her?"

Eyes on his food, Thorne shook his head. "No," he lied. "Though I did manage to be civil." Another lie. Inwardly he winced at the thought of his last exchange with Caroline.

Her visit could only be trouble.

And Thorne knew he had asked for it.

* * *

Sunday morning dawned rainy and cold. As Parson Carey closed the worship service, Elaine sighed to think of the walk back to the manor. The ruts had been filled before the wedding, but the road had been gouged again during harvest and was pocked with puddles. There would be much dried mud to brush from her skirts and wash from her stockings, and even those small tasks seemed tiresome these days.

She closed her Anglican prayer book and turned to exit the front pew--then froze.

At the rear of the church, his impenetrable gaze fixed straight ahead, sat Lord Neville.

Elaine walked down the central nave, looking down as she passed him, but paused as he murmured her name.

"Wait in the vestibule," he said.

The other servants were nearly out the door, none of them hanging back for Elaine. She stepped behind a wooden column while Parson Carey exchanged a few words with their employer. As Carey exited through the vestry, she heard her master's familiar tread approach the rear of the church.

"Good morning," he said as their eyes met in the shadows.

"Good morning, M'lord." She curtsied, then sat on the bench he indicated just inside the door.He sat down at a discreet distance.Heart racing, she managed to endure his close scrutiny with outward calm.

"How fare you?"

"Well, M'lord, thank you."

He looked relieved. "Markham treats you kindly, then?"

"Yes, very kindly. She is a patient teacher and a pleasant companion."

"Your
only
companion, it seems," he said wryly.

Looking down, she nodded.

"Eyes up, Combs."

Surprised, she met his stern gaze.

"Keep your head up and your eyes to the fore," he said more gently. "You've nothing to be ashamed of. You need be humble before none but your Maker, and show due respect only to those you serve. The rest of the world can go to the devil. Is that clear, Combs?"

She could only nod, her throat tight and her eyes full of tears.

"Here," he said hastily, fumbling in his coat pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. "I didn't mean to distress you."

To Elaine's astonishment, he blotted her tears himself, with startling tenderness. The linen smelled of sandalwood. She breathed deeply as if to calm herself, while inhaling his fragrance. "You mistake my tears, M'lord," she assured him as he refolded the handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket. "I am merely grateful, as always, for your kindness and concern."

"Your gratitude is unnecessary. Is all well with the babe?"

Elaine nodded, a radiant warmth that was more than a blush infusing her cheeks as she carefully averted her eyes. "Aye, M'lord, as best I can tell."

"Let's be certain. We'll have Hodges out to examine you." He held up a hand as she started to protest. "'Tis useless to argue, Combs. I am your master and I will have my way."

Detecting a mischievous glint in his eye, she smiled. "Very well, M'lord."

He stood up and extended a hand. "Come then. My coach awaits. I'm taking you home."

Elaine knew that Thorne Neville was not in the habit of taking a coach to the manor church; rain or shine, he would come walking or on horseback, if he came at all. Speechless, she took the hand he offered.

As his warm fingers enclosed her own, something leapt within her.

"What is it?" he said quickly at her little gasp.

"I--I think the babe just moved." Wide-eyed, she saw something akin to pain cross Lord Neville's face before the heat of embarrassment flushed her own.

"Let's get you into the coach," he said shortly, and helped her up off the bench.

Once ushered into the shining black conveyance, whose interior already felt warm and toasty from the brazier of glowing coals on the floor, Elaine settled into the plush velvet seat with a sigh of pleasure. Lord Neville climbed in after her, and in the relatively small enclosure, she realized for the first time what a presence he commanded by his very height and breadth.

"This is no day," he said as the coach jerked into motion, "for you to be traipsing through the muck and mire." He smiled. "Hence I shall convey you in style to the west entrance, where you can slip up the service stairs unobserved." He sobered. "However, this will be the last Sunday you venture to matins."

"Why?" Elaine cried, forgetting protocol in her dismay.

He studied her face. "Does it mean so much to you?"

Considering it, she sighed. "Not so much in a religious sense, as I believe worship can be expressed in hundreds of little ways throughout the day, on the Sabbath or any other. 'Tis just...would I sound utterly mad if I said I'd miss the social aspect? Though no one has much to do with me these days, I somehow feel more a part of the human race when I join them in church."

He nodded, still studying her face, then glanced out the window. "We're nearing the Hall, so I must finish my say. Though it gives me no pleasure after what you've just told me, I ask that you confine yourself to the house 'til after the babe is born. This road is not safe for a woman in your condition, especially with winter approaching. And though I personally wouldn't object," he said with a wry grimace, "others might see it as nothing less than scandalous for you to be driven to and fro in my coach." He smiled as Elaine smothered a laugh. "'Tis only a matter of time before your confinement at any rate, as Doctor Hodges will no doubt declare."

She nodded, blushing along with him.

"You'll abide by my wishes, then?" If he was trying to sound brusque, he failed miserably.

"M'lord," she said impulsively, "you are without a doubt the most compassionate master God ever gave breath, just as I knew you would be-" She broke off with an audible swallow, her heart racing; she'd said far more than was wise. "Thank you, M'lord, I shall gladly do as you wish."

Seeing him gaze at her hands, she stopped clasping and unclasping them in her lap.

"You've aroused my curiosity, Combs. How could you have known anything of my temperament before you came to work here?"

"Your reputation is well known, M'lord," she replied hastily. She looked out the window, unable to endure his thoughtful perusal any longer, and breathed a silent sigh of relief as they turned into the drive of the Hall's west wing.

"Quickly," Lord Neville said, helping her down from the coach. With a slap on the roof, he signaled the driver to be off, then opened the heavy door to the Hall. Inside and away from prying eyes, he drew Elaine into the alcove of the service stairs.

"As you'll have no society but Markham's during your confinement," he said in a low voice, "I'm offering you the use of the library again. Hear me out before you refuse. You know I often sit there late into the evening, and I'd welcome...that is to say, I've never minded your company. You could read to your heart's content without any fear of discovery. Now that I'm home again, no one intrudes there of an evening."

Elaine's pulse quickened as she absorbed the full import of his words. That she, an unwed servant, expecting a child, should be invited to inhabit the master's favorite retreat, in his company and under his protection--this was madness! No, she amended: this was Thorneton Neville. This was her lord and master, and if she had only ever thought she loved him, she knew it now beyond a doubt.

She willed away tears. "I should be glad to, M'lord...more than glad, I should be in your debt." She nearly took his hand in her fervor; catching herself, she dropped into a prolonged curtsey.

She stifled a gasp as his hand touched her face--a touch so light and so brief it shouldn't have burned her as it did, and she knew she would feel that warmth on her cheek for hours.

"You are more than welcome. But I must ask you to forego another convention," he said, supporting one of her elbows as she stood.

"Yes, M'lord?" She sounded breathless--too breathless from mere physical strain.

"Henceforth," he said firmly, "do not curtsey to me. Nod if you must, but do not bend your knee. You risk a fall."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. If he showed her any further kindness, she would weep. Or worse yet, kiss him. "As you wish, M'lord," she murmured, and slipped through the service stair door before he could say another word.

* * *

Atop Raven's back, on high ground in one of his orchards Wednesday morning, Thorne spotted the Sutherland coach on the Northhampton Road.

With a grim expression, he plucked a Macintosh from a branch overhead and tossed it into his saddlebag, where it joined a loaf of oat bread and a flask of Arthur's homemade blackberry wine. After lunch he would oversee the cider pressing for Arthur, who'd been called on family business to Kettering. But first he would borrow a pole from Carmody, who farmed the apple orchard, and slip away for some fishing when the pickers stopped for their midday meal.

He had just dropped his line on the north fork, where cold underground springs fed into the beck, when he realized he had company a few yards down the bank. The boy eyed him curiously but said nothing, and eventually Thorne all but forgot he was there. A quarter of an hour passed before Thorne hauled in his first catch. He was separating hook and trout when a pair of bare feet appeared on the mossy ground beside him.

"Not very big, is it, sir."

"No," Thorne agreed, squinting up at the boy, who appeared all of twelve. "Who might you be?"

"Clayton Carmody, sir. And ye're Lord Neville hisself," the boy announced solemnly. "I seen ye at ye're wedding."

Thorne chuckled. "Then I shan't bother introducing myself. Join me, Clayton, if you like. Perhaps between us we'll manage to catch something worth eating. Why aren't you in the orchard today?"

"Promised me mum I'd catch supper, sir." Clayton replaced his lost bait with a fat grubworm. "She give me two hours, then back to the press." He glanced toward the sun. "Reckon I've an hour to go."

After sharing his lunch, Thorne was about to leave when Clayton broke the silence. "Did ye know Henry, M'lord...the stable groom at the Hall?"

Startled, Thorne took a moment to reply. "Aye, I knew Henry. Was he a friend of yours?"

"Aye," Clayton acknowledged, swinging his line in and grabbing hold of the trout on his hook. "One of me best mates, he was. Talked to him on his last day." Biting his lip, Clayton baited his hook again and cast the line. "A mite upset, Henry was, with the master--oh, not ye, sir. The stable master. Seems Henry'd asked him a thing or two about the lady what was in the stables some nights before and had got into a row with the master."

"A lady in the stables," Thorne echoed with a frown. "And she quarreled with the stable master?"

"Aye, sir. She was a guest at the Hall, Henry said. Said the stable master nigh pulled her hair out."

"And what else did Henry say?" Thorne asked, as casually as if he were inquiring the time of day.

Clayton kept his eyes on his line. "Said the stable master called the lady his sister. Said he called her some wicked names, too. Didn't want her in his stables. The lady said he'd best treat her like a lady, and not tell anybody she was his sister. Then she give him notes and coin."

"Money," Thorne murmured, his mind racing. "Did Henry happen to tell you the lady's name?"

The boy screwed up his nose as he thought about it. "Might have, sir. I don't recollect."

"Never mind, your memory is remarkable. And you say Henry asked the stable master about the quarrel?"

"Aye, sir. The stable master was hopping mad at him, too, for knowing about it. Told Henry if he wanted to keep his situation, he'd best keep mum about the lady
and
the quarrel!"