The Heart Denied (6 page)

He traced her bow-shaped mouth with his thumb, his nostrils flaring at the innocent fragrance of castile soap and lemon verbena. "Yes, sweeting," he said huskily, then added as a caution to himself, "but no more than you like, I promise."

With a trusting nod, Gwynneth offered him her lips.

* * *

Morning found Thorne up well before the sun without having slept, and in no mood for polite society or wedding talk--or any further dalliance with his libido, which had been tested to the point of pain as he kissed Gwynneth at length in the coach. He'd been a fool to think he could give her a taste of intimacy without wanting more for himself.

He scrawled a credible note of apology for his early departure, adding that he looked forward to Radleigh's and Gwynneth's arrival at Wycliffe Hall a few days before the wedding. He hired Radleigh's driver to take him into the heart of town, but once the coach had disappeared down Oxford Street, Thorne walked briskly past the livery stable and headed toward the park district. It was nearly sunrise. He kept his head down and his tricorne pulled low, although few souls were about so early on a Sunday morning.

Some thirty minutes later he dashed up the steps of a well-appointed mansion, set his valise down and dropped the brass knocker twice, silently thanking Providence for the tall hedgerows surrounding the place. He had never been desperate enough to come here without cover of darkness.

Until today.

A craggy-faced woman in a white cap cracked the door open and looked him up and down with a frown. "Well? State your business."

"I beg your pardon for the early hour, but I must speak with Madame Claire."

The frown turned to a glower. "She don't conduct business at this hour, 'specially on Sunday, which is why Bess ain't around to answer the door. Bloomin' gall you got! Come back after noon." Closing the door, the woman spotted the folded pound note in Thorne's extended fingers, glanced over her shoulder, and snatched it from him. "And who might you be?" she murmured.

"Adams. Tell your mistress that Adams has come from Oxford."

"Wait here." She shut the door.

Thorne leaned against the portico and watched the eastern sky turn a brazen pink. There would be rain today. He hoped Wycliffe was in its path, the herdsmen needing a night off their watch and the fields needing water.

The door flew open. The same servant gave him a simpering smile. "Do come in, Mister Adams. Madame will be with you straightaway."

"Madame" appeared without her usual mask of kohl, rouge, and powder, but was no less gracious for having to rise so early. "I've taken the
liberté
of waking our Katy, Monsieur Adams...I hope I was not
présomptueux
." She arched over-plucked eyebrows.

"You presume correctly, Madame. I shall be more than happy to see Katy."

She seemed amused. "Katy will be more than happy to see
you
, monsieur." Her nod indicated the curved staircase. "I expect she is ready for you now. Come."

The provocative words seemed to hang in the air. By the time Thorne followed Madame Claire's swaying skirts to the top of the stairs, the mere sight of Katy's chamber door was enough to stir his blood.

He entered the dim room and quietly closed the door, then stood still, his back to the bed, and drew a deep, silent breath.

"Would you mind opening the draperies, Mister Adams?" Her voice sounded light and melodic on the surface, but Thorne detected an underlying tremor. "I know how you fancy the light," she added, reminding him he was no stranger to her.

The bed linens rustled. Thorne's nostrils flared. He spoke without turning around. "You've changed your perfume."

"Do you not like it?"

"'Tis just that I've a particular fondness for the other." He moved to a window and began fastening the velvet panels aside, taking his time, then turned, hands clasped behind him, to see the vision awaiting him in the bed.

"Aye, well, we all have to accept change now and then, don't we." It was not a question, but a soft rebuke. Awash in dawn's blushing light amid sumptuous bed-linens and ruffled pillows, Katy sat with her mouth curved in a smile of sweet irony, her eyes heavy-lidded from slumber, her hair cascading like dark fire over her porcelain skin and pooling on the sheets around her.

And Thorne knew that if he had any reservations about being here, it was too late now.

* * *

Braced on all fours, Thorne surfaced from the tumultuous tide of his release and opened his eyes to the voluptuous satiety of Katy's smile. He leaned down to touch his dripping forehead to hers, acknowledging the tempest they'd just weathered together.

Lying in her embrace, he let his mind float away on the sweet Gaelic words she murmured as she smoothed sweat-plastered strands of hair from his brow.

"You've not yet wed," she said softly.

The transition to English startled him into opening his eyes. "No," he murmured.

"But you will."

"Yes." His mouth felt suddenly dry.

"Soon?"

He nodded.

She closed her eyes, but opened them again as Thorne kissed her nose. She watched without comment as he wound an auburn lock around his finger and brought it to his lips in wordless salute.

His eyes closed as she kissed first one lid and then the other.

They did not open again for nearly nine hours.

* * *

Katy kept vigil over her Mister Adams throughout the day, only one intrusion arriving as a servant left a tray of victuals outside the room with a discreet knock.

Watching her lover sleep, she recommitted every detail of his angular face to memory, knowing she might never see it again. As she dashed unbidden tears away, her mind cried out the one question she hadn't dared ask.

Do you love her?

The answer came immediately, as if he'd heard her in his sleep.

I would not be here if I did.

Late in the afternoon, he woke and ate, then sat patiently while Katy smoothed the tangles from his hair and fastened his garters.

"You'd make some man a good wife," he told her, as she turned his cuffs and buttoned his waistcoat.

Her laugh sounded brittle. "Would have made, you mean. Aye, well, fate and me mum chose otherwise for me, Mister Adams, and I'll not be crying over spilt milk." Bending over him to tie his neckcloth, she blew a tendril of hair off her brow and looked him in the eye. "Besides, your decision to travel the rutty road of holy matrimony wouldn't necessarily be mine."

When the time came for him to go, he pressed folded currency into her hand, closing her fingers on it for her when she made no move to hold it.

She stared blindly at his waistcoat. "I'd not accept this but for Madame Claire." Her eyes rose to meet his. "Do you understand, Mister Adams?"

Without replying, he drew her to him and pressed his lips into her hair.

She watched him walk to the door, her energy ebbing with each step he took, her face a mask with a plastered-on smile.

Stepping onto the gallery, he returned only the ghost of a smile, then slowly and quietly shut the door.

Katy gazed numbly at the closed portal. After a long while, she opened her hand and unfolded the crinkled currency. She stared at it for a moment, then fell to her knees on the rug, and was sitting there when Madame Claire knocked at the door and let herself in. Without a word, Katy handed her the money.

The madam stared at it, then at Katy, and shook her head, her smile nearly cracking her rouged face. "
Mon Dieu
, girl...he left us
fifty pounds
!"

"Aye. A farewell gift," Katy said tonelessly, and burst into tears.

Thorne's pre-dawn arrival at Wycliffe Hall guaranteed a cold hearth in his study. Crouched there with the bellows, he heard something clatter on the desk behind him.

"Bloody hell!" He shot up from the hearth.

"Pardon, M'lord." The maid clutched hard at her skirts and curtsied, then turned to flee.

"Combs."

She halted, facing the door.

Thorne went to the desk, where a tray lay on the blotter. A puddle of tea surrounded a cup in its saucer. He looked at the maid's rigid back. "This will never do, Combs. Perhaps if you weren't always in a hell-for-leather hurry to leave my proximity...Combs?"

"Aye, M'lord?"

"While there's nothing objectionable about your aft exposure, I prefer seeing your face when I speak to you."

Squaring her shoulders, she turned around, then dropped a stiff curtsey. "Begging your pardon, M'lord."

Thorne regretted detaining her the instant he saw her pale cheeks and puffy eyes. He decided to berate her for her carelessness and pretend not to notice anything amiss.

"Your demeanor, Combs, suggests something amiss...some tragedy in your family, perhaps?"
Ah, Neville, you've flipped your nonexistent wig!

"No, M'lord."

"Has some wrong been done you?"

"No, M'lord."

Belatedly, he tried to distance himself. "No doubt Dame Carswell can assist."

An anguished look crossed the maid's face. She dropped her head into her hands.

Distance was forgotten as Thorne came around the desk and offered his handkerchief. "Here now, no need for tears. Sit down for a moment."
Daft, Neville. You're well and truly daft!

He shut the door and guided her to a chair, noticing that she dabbed at her tears with the square of linen but refrained from blowing her nose into it. Very dainty, this one.

Her sniffling quieted. Thorne sat down at his desk and regarded her warily. "I assume from your reaction that Dame Carswell cannot be of help in the matter."

The maid took a deep breath. "She is part of the matter, sir. You see, I was ill this morn, as I have been several mornings of late. Dame Carswell has noticed, and today made some very intimate inquiries of me. She thinks"--Combs swallowed audibly--"that I am with child."

Thorne grappled with inexplicable dismay. "And the father?"

Looking as surprised as he at the question, Combs closed her eyes. Tears seeped from under her eyelids and slid down scarlet cheeks. "Toby. Mister Hobbs."

Thorne's stomach knotted. He tried to keep his voice even. "And what has he to say? Have you told him?"

She shook her head. "I dare not. He'll be angry. He'll deny it at any rate."

"Why?" Thorne demanded, scarcely believing he'd asked, or what he was about to ask. "Is there some possibility he is
not
the father?"

Combs stared at him, a hollow look in her dove-gray eyes. "I swear to you, M'lord, with God as my witness, I have never been with another man."

Thorne looked away, then rose from his chair and strode to the window, hands clasped behind him. "Then Hobbs knew."

"Knew what, M'lord?"

He quietly cleared his throat. "Knew that you were still...a maiden." He could feel Combs' hot blush as if it were his, and wondered again why he'd felt compelled to make such an inquiry.

"Y-yes, he knew," she stammered softly.

"How long ago did he seduce you?" Again he could hardly believe the question had passed his unaccountably dry lips.

"'Twas a fortnight before you returned from university, M'lord."

It was the first time Thorne had detected any bitterness in her voice. He assumed she resented his prying--and why not? He was quite disgruntled by it himself. He turned to face her.

"Please understand, Combs, that my inquiries are not of a seedy nature. I'm neither deviant nor voyeuristic. Nor am I busybody or gossipmonger, in fact I rather pride myself on minding my own affairs and giving those of others a wide berth. I simply ask in the interest of a man who has served my family well for more than half his life." There, that should do. But no, he wasn't finished--and she knew it, judging by the sudden steel in her bearing.

"Were you forced?" he asked, his voice going hoarse. "And was it just the one time? Sorry, Combs, but I must have the lay of the land before charging in"--
o
n your white steed
? sneered his conscience--"with indictments," he finished, snapping his mouth shut.

"I consented." Despite her flaming cheeks, she spoke with no shame. "I have not been with him since. I did try to speak with him, but that made him angry. It seems I was mere diversion, despite his endless attempts to woo me and his hints at marriage." She swiped at a fresh tear with the balled handkerchief in her fist. "Begging your pardon, M'lord, I was a fool, and I've no right to self-pity, much less to indulge it in your presence. By your leave, I shall get on with my duties now."

"In a moment, Combs. I'd be remiss in my own duty to let this go unsaid." Thorne rounded the desk and perched on its edge. "Hobbs," he said grimly, "has a reputation for breaking hearts and maidenheads from Northampton to London and back again. Several times over." There, that was turning the knife, but Combs didn't flinch. Thorne paused, unnerved by her guileless gaze, then made his voice brusque. "Nonetheless, Hobbs is a top-notch stableman, the
creme de la creme
of horsemen. I cannot afford to lose him."

Nodding, Combs looked away.

"However, I shall speak with him."

Her eyes flew to him and widened. "No, M'lord, you mustn't, I...I cannot ask that of you."

"You didn't ask. Humor me, Combs. I've my own reasons for wishing to talk to Hobbs. You may go now."

She rose from the chair and curtsied. "I shall fetch another tray, M'lord. Your breakfast is cold, thanks to me."

"I didn't ring for breakfast, Combs. And 'twas I who detained you." He sat down behind the desk. "Bring it, then. Try not to sneak by me this time."

"Yes, M'lord."

Glimpsing a smile as she turned to go, Thorne regretted having to ask one more question. "What has Dame Carswell to say of your situation?"

Combs turned to him, her smile faltering. "She says, M'lord, that if I am
enceinte
, I shall have to seek employment elsewhere."

Thorne observed the maid silently for a moment, then said, "We shall see about that."

* * *

"Murdered?" Thorne echoed in disbelief. "Tom Barker had a way of offending, but I can't say he deserved strangling, at least not to the death."

"Whoever killed him didn't profit," Arthur said. "He was bellyaching over his empty purse when he left Duncan's that night."

"Tom's mates knew his well only ran dry when the coin ran out. So if robbery was the intent, 'twas likely a stranger. Has Smythe sent for the constable?"

Arthur nodded.

"And our vigils?"

"Ongoing, 'til last night. The mists were so bloody thick a
score
of lanterns would have been of no use. I trust you enjoyed your stay in London?"

Thorne's gaze fell to his paperwork. "'Twas pleasant enough. Radleigh and Gwynneth will arrive in a fortnight or so. I understand preparations are already underway." He raised his eyes inquiringly.

"Aye." Arthur looked chagrined. "Bridey and Carswell are nearing full tilt."

Thorne chuckled. "Never mind, they'll see it through to the finish, and things will be all the better for their scrapping."

* * *

Hobbs' ropy sinew rippled with each stroke of the curry brush. "He's a fine animal," he said without looking up. "As partial as I am to Bartholomew, this one nigh puts him to shame."

Raven stood unmoved by the praise except for an impatient swipe of his tail, his coat glistening blue-black in a shaft of sunlight.

"Put to it, I'd have to agree," Thorne said, glancing at the big red gelding, his father's favorite. He watched Hobbs at work for a few more minutes, then broke the awkward silence. "I've spoken this morn with one of the maids. Combs by name."

Hobbs' hesitation was barely noticeable as he knelt to brush Raven's foreleg. "And why should that interest me, M'lord?"

"Only because it seems she's with child, and you are the father."

Hobbs turned, amber eyes narrowing. "Never one to mince words, were you, M'lord." He tossed the curry brush into a pail of soapy water. "She'll have to prove it to me," he flung over his shoulder. "If she can." He led Raven to his stall.

Thorne kept his voice level. "She claims she was a virgin when you bedded her."

"True." Hobbs shut the stall gate and leaned against it, eyeing Thorne with frowning curiosity.

"She also says it happened only once."

"Aye. Your point, M'lord?"

Thorne could barely contain his sarcasm. "Once is enough, if I remember my biology correctly."

"True, but the sword was out of the scabbard when...well, you catch my drift. Let's just say I kept my wits about me. See here, M'lord, I've admitted to bedding the woman. She's easy on the eyes, and eager enough between the sheets. Unfortunately she was besotted with me, as happens particularly with women newly broken, and when she realized I'd no intention of wedding her, she was outraged."

"You mean devastated."

Hobbs shrugged. "Call it what you will. At any rate, she likely sought consolation elsewhere and got a bit more than she bargained for. And now she seeks revenge by pointing the finger at me! Well, it won't work, I tell you." He snatched up a tack rag and began shining a saddle on the workbench.

Recognizing Robert Neville's saddle, Thorne felt a grudging appreciation that Hobbs had enough respect for him to maintain it.

"By your leave, M'lord, I've work to do."

"Hobbs."

The stable master looked up to meet Thorne's piercing regard.

"Combs vows you're the only man who's ever bedded her. I believe her. And if you're half the man I'm told you are, you'll do what is right."

Hobbs boldly returned Thorne's stare. "As I said, M'lord--she'll have to prove it."