The Heart Denied (7 page)

I must apologize for my unladylike behavior in the coach. I have since made confession and through proper penance am absolved. You shall never again witness such a shameful display of boldness from me.

I look forward to our arrival at Wycliffe Hall in August, where I hope I am still welcome.

Father has stepped out again tonight. I fear he is at the gaming tables and will arrive home inebriated as he does often here in London. God be thanked, our coachman stays at the ready to take him home.

Today Caroline Sutherland escorted me to Madame Charlotte's shop in Regent Street for my fittings. Caroline's husband is often away, and I think she is lonely, so I am glad to keep her company.

In closing, I ask that you think of me kindly, as I think of you.

 

I remain your betrothed,

Gwynneth Lynnette Stowington.

Baffled, Thorne scanned the letter once more. He and Gwynneth had shared a mere kiss. Confession! Would she run to the priest with an account of their every intimacy? Surely not after they wed.

The library door opened; Elaine Combs entered with tea. Thorne folded Gwynneth's letter and slipped it into a pocket. "Sit for a moment, Combs, please."

Her quickly masked relief at getting off her feet did not escape Thorne. He wished he could offer her a biscuit and some tea without her thinking it odd or improper. "I've spoken to Hobbs," he told her quietly. "The result was not what I'd hoped."

"He denied it, didn't he." She bit her lip. "Forgive me, M'lord. I've forgotten my manners again."

"I can't say I blame you...and your manners are fine." He studied the face of this woman whose beauty seemed refined and classic instead of striking, and whose speech oddly lacked slurred vowels or truncated suffixes. "So fine," he murmured, "that I have wondered just how and where you acquired them."

Her hands tightened in her lap. "Thank you, M'lord."  

Damnation, would she reveal
nothing
about herself? He couldn't just come out and ask, and she knew it. He decided to be blunt. "Hobbs wants proof he is the father."

The maid stared at him blankly.

"Combs?" Sweet Jesu, he was
too
blunt; she was going to faint.

She blinked. "Forgive me, M'lord. I was trying to think how I might possibly prove such a thing."

Thorne slowly let out his breath.

"By your leave, M'lord"--the maid abruptly rose and curtsied--"I shan't take up any more of your time. Dame Carswell will be looking for me. But I appreciate what you did for me."

"I did nothing for you, Combs." Thorne felt suddenly glum. "At least nothing to appreciate."

She looked indignant. "You saved me certain humiliation and perhaps abuse, for I hear Hobbs has a fearsome temper."

"Then avoid him."

Her startled expression told him how imperious he'd sounded. "I shall, M'lord." She hurried toward the door.

But he couldn't let her go, not yet. "I told you in our last meeting, Combs, that I couldn't afford to lose Hobbs."

She stopped and turned to look at him, her expression inscrutable. "Aye, M'lord, I remember."

"I tell you now," he said, his throat tightening, "that if the man ever
lays a hand on you, I will personally thrash the devil out of him and then throw him out on his ear,
sans
letters of recommendation, and it will be arranged so that he can find no better situation than that of groom, shoveling dung in only the poorest of stables without any prospect of advancement."

They stared at one another, servant and master--she looking startled, he stunned by his own intensity.

"You may go," he said presently. His voice had nearly recovered its normal timbre.

A while later, after a double shot of whiskey, his heart recovered its normal rhythm.

* * *

6 August, 1728

My dearest lord,

I received your letter today. You say you have a surprise for me. Might it be you have given some thought to conversion? The thought of attending Holy Mass and taking Holy Communion with you gives me great pleasure. Of course such a decision is entirely yours, for only you can know your heart in such matters.

My wedding frock is nearly finished. Madame Charlotte has outdone herself, from all accounts. My trousseau is complete as well. I shall certainly bring more than the one trunk with me this time!

I shall close now, and courier this today.

Fondly,

Gwynneth Lynette Stowington

Arthur looked down into his ale. "And so it begins," he said with a snort.

"What begins?" Seated across a table at Duncan's, Thorne tucked the letter away.

The steward took a long draught before replying. "Wycliffe Hall's transformation."

"Into what?"

"A deuced nunnery."

Thorne chortled. "Then I'll be its priest and we'll
all
go to the devil." Seeing Arthur wasn't amused, he sobered. "Bear up, my friend. True fanaticism would put me off, but this smacks more of sentimentality--attending church together and so on. Gwynneth isn't about to convert my household." Thorne grinned. "Though Bridey would prove an easy mark. She's forever begging the saints to preserve her."

Arthur smile looked uneasy.

"'Tis
my
conversion Gwynneth wants," Thorne assured him, "and damned if I'm willing to pay the Crown double taxes for the privilege."

"Any more than you're willing to pay to keep a priest in the village?"

Thorne narrowed his eyes. "You're a shrewd one, Pennington, never let it be said otherwise. But roughly a third of our tenants are dyed-in-the-wool Catholics, say what they will. And happy tenants mean larger profit. You know it, and so did my father."

"Aye, but not to the tune of forty pounds per annum. For a papist stipend, at that." Arthur shook his head. "And once you've joined Radleigh's family, Parliament may well view you as a subversive-"

"Bollocks. Radleigh's family is joining mine, and my family has been allied with the Anglican Church since its inception. What my wife does upon her knees is of no interest to me, much less to His Majesty." Arthur pressed his lips together, and Thorne held back a smile. "There, that was rather badly worded--but we digress. I was about to say that Gwynneth's suggestion is no surprise to me. She's lived among devoted Roman Catholics for ten years now, following their rituals and saying their prayers-"

"And wishing to take their vows."

"Yes, but now she wishes to be my wife."

"She's trading her dream for that, M'lord, and it will take much love to balance the scales."

"Bloody hell." Scowling, Thorne pushed his trestle bench back from the table. "Why the devil do you persist in this? I'm quite fond of the lady, Arthur. I want to be with her, protect her. I want her to bear my children. And I believe with all my heart--my head as well--that those things constitute a firm foundation for marriage." He gulped down some of his ale and set the tankard down hard, unable to conceal his wounded pride. "I'd hoped for your blessing before now, but I see you still have your doubts."

Arthur's brief smile did not patronize. "You have my blessing, M'lord, if you truly want it. As for my doubts" --he touched his tankard to Thorne's-- "here's hoping you'll prove me wrong."

"There it is, Caroline! There is Wycliffe Hall. Oh, and look! There, alongside the road!"

Caroline leaned forward to look out the coach window, but saw nothing to warrant squealing like a peasant.

"The roses...oh, Caroline, the roses!" Gwynneth clutched at the curtain. "I smelled them, but I thought it
must
be my imagination. 'Tis the surprise he promised me. There must be thousands of them!"

"Well, hundreds, at any rate." Caroline hoped her disparaging sniff passed for a sampling of the floral perfume pervading the coach interior. For her, the profusion of pink, red, yellow and white blossoms lining the drystone wall only served as a bitter reminder that Horace used to weekly send her enough roses to fill every vase in their home.

"'Tis rather like a bridal path, isn't it?" Gwynneth clasped her lace-gloved hands under her chin and inhaled with the serene rapture of a yogin.

Caroline fought an urge to slap her. "A thoughtful man, your Lord Neville."
And if there is any justice in the world, one of those bloody bees will fly in here and sting your lily-white skin right through those pastel silks.

"He is very considerate," Gwynneth allowed with a blush. "And quite romantic, I think."

Caroline dug her nails into her palm. "I do hope my presence won't foil his romantic bent," she said smoothly.

"Oh, Caroline, don't be absurd!" Gwynneth's laugh sounded sweetly indulgent. "I know his lordship will want you here."

Yes...here and anywhere else he might have me!
Caroline feigned an apprehensive smile. "I hope so, Gwynneth. I truly hope so."

* * *

Thorne and Arthur watched two coaches and three drays tarpaulined in oiled canvas roll to a stop. As footmen and maids streamed down the steps of the terraced lawn to take numerous trunks and bags, William the kitchen-boy and young Henry unhitched the horses to lead them in pairs to the beck. Thorne waved Radleigh's coachman aside to open the door himself.

"Thank God. My bones have turned to powder." The portly man heaved a sigh as his future son-in-law helped him down with a chuckle.

"Come now, Radleigh, we've filled in ruts and potholes nearly all the way to Northampton--what more could you ask?"

"Paving," Radleigh grumbled, his breath reeking of brandy fumes. "The Romans weren't entirely barbaric, you know. Just wait 'til you're my age, Neville, and see how well
you
travel these bloody country roads."

Thorne clapped a hand over a big shoulder. "A bath and a cool mug await you, my friend, but first I must greet my bride."

Gwynneth nearly melted into his embrace, crying out softly, "Oh, my lord, the roses, they're beautiful! Where did you get them, and however did you plant so many?"

He smiled down at her, his loins stirring at the worship in her eyes; his costly gift had paid off. "They came from the finest hothouses in London, along with a team of horti-" he broke off, his attention suddenly riveted beyond Gwynneth, his pulse slowing to an erratic thud. The extra coach. Of course. Monogrammed for
Sutherland
, not Stowington. "-culturists," he finished, his mouth snapping shut.

Caroline stepped down with queenly grace, her gloved hand sliding off the footman's arm as she reached the ground and smiled, first at Gwynneth with a conspirator's air, then at Thorne with perfect aplomb.

Gwynneth looked gleeful. "Are you surprised, my lord?"

"Utterly," he muttered, extending his hand. Caroline's hand slid into it as she curtseyed, her exotic scent wafting upward and bringing with it a keen recall of the waltz they'd shared. Thorne's tongue knotted along with his stomach.

"Caroline feared she mightn't be welcome at Wycliffe Hall," Gwynneth scoffed.

"Nonsense, you are quite welcome," Thorne said to Caroline. "My home's ambiance can only be enriched by your presence."

A smile played about Caroine's lips. "You are as gracious a man as Gwynneth claims, my lord, but your home isn't likely to be improved upon in any fashion by my presence."
Your person, however,
her eyes told him,
might benefit immensely.

"We've brought Ashby, Caroline's maid," Gwynneth was saying, nodding toward a young woman William was helping down from the driver's seat. "Caroline has agreed to share her with me."

Thorne drew Gwynneth's arm through his. "But I've taken the liberty of appointing a lady's maid for you. She's waited upon you before. Do you remember Combs?"

"Yes, she seemed quite capable," Gwynneth recalled as they lagged behind the others, Radleigh following Jennings to the library and its well-stocked liquor cabinet, Dame Carswell leading Caroline and Ashby on up the stairs.

"I'm glad you agree. I've sent her ahead to your chambers, where you can begin a life of leisure by instructing her in the matter of unpacking your trunks."

Gwynneth sighed. "I think you will be a perfect husband."

"Perfect?" Smiling ruefully, Thorne shook his head. "Harbor no such delusion, dear lady. I shall, however, try my best to be the husband you deserve."

Her answering smile was so sweetly radiant that after a moment Thorne muttered, "Hang convention!" and leaned down to steal a kiss. As her lips lingered willingly under his, he drew away. "Go," he said gruffly, "while you can."

Laughing, Gwynneth ran up the steps. Thorne's smile felt more like a grimace as his loins tightened again.
Dear God, get this interminable wedding behind us.

Turning from the newel post, he saw his housekeeper paused at the mouth of the west hall, her stony gaze upon the stairs where Gwynneth had just disappeared from view.

"Buck up, Carswell." A hint of warning lurked behind his teasing tone. "Yonder goes your new mistress."

* * *

"Am I late?"

Gwynneth's question trailed away as she paused in the open doorway of the dining room, her eye skimming the long table for the first time from a viewpoint as lady of the house.  The service of china, crystal and ivory-handled sterling gleamed in the halo of tall candelabras, every precious piece set out with faultless precision on cream-colored Belfast linen.

Across the room, Thorne looked up from an aperitif.

"Late, my lady?" Setting his glass on the mantel, he turned his back on Radleigh and Caroline to approach Gwynneth. "Your father might complain," he murmured as he took her hand, "but the devil take me if
I
care.  You're a vision to behold, and well worth the wait."

Gwynneth could hardly question his sincerity. The looking glass in her chambers had revealed a beauty rendered almost ethereal by her shoulder-baring frock, a creation of pale-pink cabbage roses on a background of ivory covered by a gauzy overskirt. But oh, how Sister Theresa Bernard would frown at the décolleté neckline, and especially the display of plump bosom it offered to Thorne's appreciative glance.

"Sweet," Caroline murmured as she joined the couple, her eyes narrowing.

Radleigh followed, strutting like a rooster.  "Thorne, I must congratulate you on your choice of lady's maid for my daughter.  What a transformation!" 

Thorne shook his head, his eyes still on his fiancé.  "Radleigh, your daughter would be a beauty even in rags."

Gwynneth touched Thorne's arm as he took his seat next to her, the heat in her cheeks rivaling the slow fire that banished all tendrils of fog daring to enter the open windows. "I've told Caroline the tragic story of your Aunt Agnes," she said hastily. "Will you show us inside the tower?"

Hesitating, Thorne shrugged. "Very well, but I must warn you and Mistress Sutherland that nothing save for spiders and bats has entered the place for decades."

"My lord?" Caroline spoke up in a velvet voice.

"Ma'am?" was Thorne's polite reply.

She smiled. "Not being particularly bound by convention, I should be pleased if you would call me by my Christian name."

"If you insist, ma'am." Looking down at his plate, Thorne picked up his spoon.

While Caroline spooned the consommé as casually as their host did, Gwynneth looked from friend to fiancé with a frown. Only Radleigh seemed unaware of Thorne's subtle refusal to grant Caroline first-name privilege.

* * *

Halfway through supper, Jennings announced a caller. Thorne put down his napkin and followed the head-footman to the great hall, but passed him as he recognized the man who'd just doffed his hat to expose an impossibly curly mass of bright-red hair.

"Townsend!" Thorne grabbed his hand and pumped it delightedly.

His visitor grinned. "Good God, Neville, I've never seen you looking so hale and hearty, the country quite agrees with you!" Richard Townsend handed his cloak and tricorne to Jennings. "Your man tells me I've interrupted supper."

"We've just finished," Thorne assured him, shooting Jennings a jaundiced look.

"Well, I should at least apologize for showing up five days too soon."

Thorne clapped him on the shoulder. "Townsend, you'd be welcome here no matter how early. My bride-to-be has just arrived this afternoon. Leave your bag for Jennings, and come meet my guests."

Thorne first introduced his friend to Radleigh. Presented to Gwynneth, Townsend bowed and pledged his undying loyalty. As he turned to Caroline, his hazel eyes brightened. "We've met before, ma'am, though I can't for the life of me remember where."

"Surely not, sir." Caroline looked at him from under her long eyelashes. "'Tis not likely I'd forget."

Thorne clenched his jaw as Townsend's face turned scarlet. Radleigh chuckled.

Gwynneth smiled. "Another heart won, Caroline."

"The first today, then," Caroline murmured, and Thorne suddenly felt Gwynneth's eyes on him, taking a long, speculative look at the only man who seemed invulnerable to her friend's considerable charms.