When the dance was over and they had made their final bows, Thorne pulled Gloriana into his arms. “I don’t know how many hearts you’ve broken in there,” he said softly, “but you’ve surely conquered me tonight.”
Gloriana gazed up at his handsome face, illuminated by the bright moon. She wished she could see his eyes, read into his heart. Surely he must love her as much as she loved him. “Oh, John, you great oaf,” she blurted out. “Why don’t you marry me?”
His laugh was gentle, enveloping her in its warmth. “You brazen hussy. Perhaps I shall. But first we must talk.” He held her tightly, as though he feared to lose her. “Oh, God,” he said with a groan. “Come home now and hear my confession. And then we’ll speak of marriage, if you still want it.”
“Not want it? Do you think I’m a fool?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m the fool, as you shall soon learn.” He propelled her around the corner, past the dancing room, to the terrace that led to the great hall. “Now go and say your farewells. I’ll follow and get Black Jack. Meet me outside the antechamber. Wait!” He pulled her into his arms. “One more kiss. It could be the last,” he said sadly.
His kiss was deep and searching, almost desperate, demanding her most passionate response. She felt a thrill of uneasiness. Surely his “confession” was something he dreaded to give. She stepped up on the terrace, decorated with large potted bushes that shadowed her as she moved toward the door. A slightly disheveled man had just emerged from the gaming room and was staggering unsteadily toward the door in front of her, clutching his groin. She had not seen him before. She stepped aside as he brushed past her, grumbling under his breath.
“Need to piss,” he muttered. “Damned cards!”
The drunken fool, she thought. To waste this lovely evening on too much wine and the mindless pleasures of gambling. She was about to step inside when she heard his shout of surprise.
“Begad! Thorne, is it you?”
Someone who had known John before? She felt guilty for eavesdropping, but she concealed herself behind one of the tall bushes, curious to hear the conversation out.
Thorne’s voice was low, tight and controlled. “I fear you’ve mistaken me for someone else, milord.”
“Not at all,” the man sputtered. “I may be drunk, but I’m not blind. You’re John Havilland, Duke of Thorneleigh. Haven’t seen you since the races at Epsom. What the devil are you doing here in Whitby? And dressed like a peasant.”
“I assure you, milord, you are mistaken.”
“Balderdash! Must I acknowledge you to the company?”
At the sound of Thorne’s muttered curse and heavy sigh of resignation, Gloriana felt her heart contract. A duke? That would explain his natural arrogance, his fine manners, far above those of a mere valet. But why his elaborate ruse, the masquerade he had maintained for nearly two months?
“Keep your voice down, Nescott,” he muttered. “I don’t wish to be recognized.”
Nescott laughed. “Aha! Pursuing one of your many conquests? And how soon will you jilt her as you’ve jilted the rest? To keep up your reputation, of course.”
Gloriana gasped at his words. Was that all she had been to Thorne? Another conquest?
Thorne’s voice was suddenly aristocratic and hard—a tone she had never heard before. “Are you forgetting your place, you insignificant worm?”
“I… I… not at all, Your Grace. I speak from admiration, not disapproval. Your exploits are the talk of London. And your mad wager in May, the most reckless gamble you’ve ever proposed… Tell me, did you ever find the Baniard woman? And bed her? Your adversaries are still buzzing, waiting for your admission of defeat, or the lock of her hair as proof of success.”
Gloriana suppressed a cry, her hands going to her mouth. A wager! He had known all along who she was. Had pursued her only to win a bet. She wanted to die of shame.
“Listen to me, Nescott,” Thorne growled in a menacing voice. “You will say nothing! Either to this company or anyone else. You will not recognize me if we should meet in Whitby. Do you understand? I can be very dangerous when I’m crossed.”
“Y… Yes… yes, of course, Your Grace,” Nescott stammered. “You shall not see me again this evening if that pleases you. I intend to find a bench and take a nap in this garden. Rest assured, I would never do anything to harm anyone as… as influential as you are. I take my leave, Your Grace. Forgive me for my impertinence.”
Gloriana could no longer control herself. She burst into heartbroken sobs, her body shaking with grief.
Thorne was suddenly before her on the terrace, his arms reaching out to her. “Oh, my God! You heard it all.”
She slapped at his arms. “Don’t touch me, you monster!”
“Gloriana, listen to me! I forgot that absurd wager weeks ago.”
“You poxy villain!” she cried through her tears. “Before or after you bedded me? Or perhaps after you sent the lock of my hair to your vile companions in London. And collected your winnings, no doubt.”
He groaned. “I had forgotten about the hair. I wanted it only as a memento.”
“Do you now add lies to all your other sins?” She had never hated anyone as much as she hated him at this moment.
“No! I intended to tell you the truth tonight, and ask you to be my duchess.”
“A marriage proposal? Another wager? Another amusement for you and your friends—before you jilted me and preserved your reputation? Your Grace?” she added with scorn.
“No, never! Oh, Gloriana, my sweet. Please forgive me. Come home to our cottage, so we can talk.”
“’Tis not your home, caitiff. ’Tis mine. And you are not welcome there. Not ever again!”
“Let me make it up to you. Let me…” He tried to reach for her again, but she eluded his grasp and dashed back into the great hall, choking on her tears. She saw Sir Arthur across the room, speaking with several other gentlemen, and dodged the clusters of guests on the floor, seeking him out like a starving beggar desperate for a crumb of kindness. Thorne pounded after her, finally managing to clutch at her arm as she reached Pritchett.
“Let me go, you dog!” she cried. “Sir Arthur, I beg you… help me!”
Pritchett’s eyes flashed. “Take your hands off the gentlewoman, sirrah!” He gestured to his friends, who immediately leaped to pull Thorne away from Gloriana and hold him fast. He struggled vainly against the men who held him, cursing savagely. The room had gone quiet. The guests crowded around, wide-eyed, whispering among themselves.
Sir Arthur planted himself before Thorne, his lip curling in contempt. “You dared to attack this kind lady, to bring her to tears? I intend to have you horsewhipped. But first… something I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met you—a cur who clearly doesn’t know his place…” He swung back his arm and drove his fist into Thorne’s jaw—once, and then again. Gloriana could hear the crunch of bone on bone. Thorne sagged between the men who held him, his eyes glazed in near-insensibility. Rubbing his bruised knuckles, Pritchett turned back to Gloriana. “Now, my dear, may I see you home?”
She felt suffocated, drowning in her sorrow, scarcely able to breathe with the staring faces so close. “No. I want to be alone. My horse…” She brushed past the crowd, hurried to the door and fled outside, shrilly demanding that Black Jack be brought to her at once.
As she galloped home in the moonlight, her thoughts were in turmoil. She couldn’t stay in Whitby. The town, the cottage, her happy life here—all had turned to poison in her heart, corrupted by the venom that Thorne had brought to every day they had spent together. She could taste the bitterness in her mouth, remembering his final kiss, now irreversibly altered by his deception.
But where could she go? Back to the streets of London? It was where she belonged, she could see that now. She had been a fool to think she could ever be a lady. Thorne had probably been laughing at her the whole of their time together, as the servants had at Baniard Hall, using her for his own satisfaction. Hi
s seeming warmth, his kindnesses, had merely been a sham—only instruments for his vile seduction.
She sobbed aloud in the darkness. Perhaps his betrayal had only been her proper due in life. The bastard child of a Gypsy and a thief. Common clay. What had ever made her think that she could rise above her beginnings?
• • •
Thorne shook his head to clear it of the last cobwebs. His jaw throbbed like the devil. Damn Pritchett! He struggled to stand tall and proud, despite the men who still clutched his arms. He stared at Pritchett with contempt, managing with difficulty to control the fury that raged in his heart.
“You will have your men release me, Pritchett,” he said in a stern tone. “At once.”
“Pah! And who are you to give me orders, sirrah?”
“I am John Havilland, Duke of Thorneleigh. And your superior in every way.”
Pritchett was clearly rattled by his announcement, delivered with supreme confidence, but he managed to sound skeptical. “Indeed, sir?”
“Nescott is in the garden. He recognized me. Send for him.” Thorne glanced briefly at the two men who still held him. “And call off your dogs. I’m not in the habit of being pawed.”
Pritchett hesitated, then stepped aside as Sir Hugh Cholmley, summoned from the dancing floor, made his way through the gathering.
“What the devil is going on here, Arthur?” he demanded.
Pritchett pointed a scornful finger at Thorne. “This rogue claims to be the Duke of Thorneleigh. And he had the temerity to assault Mistress Cook.”
Sir Hugh raised a questioning eyebrow. “Thorneleigh? Mistress Cook’s blacksmith? An improbable tale. I would have met that esteemed gentleman at Court last season and recognized him at once.”
Thorne forced himself to remain calm. He outranked every man in this country backwater, and he found it maddening to have to explain himself. “I was abroad last season, Sir Hugh. I came to Whitby in disguise. On a whim, if you will. But if you send for Nescott in the garden, he will identify me. In the meantime, have these men release me.”
Cholmley nodded. “Let the man go. And find Nescott. We’ll resolve this dilemma soon enough.”
Thorne chafed with impatience as several footmen ran into the garden. He couldn’t see Gloriana among the crowd. She must have gone back to the cottage while he was regaining his wits after Arthur’s attack. What a mess he’d made of the whole business. Would she ever forgive him? He should have told her the truth weeks ago.
At last, Nescott came stumbling into the hall, his periwig askew, his waistcoat unbuttoned. He planted himself unsteadily before Cholmley and gave a polite nod of his head. “You sent for me, Sir Hugh?”
“I did. Who is this man?”
Nescott looked at Thorne, an edge of fear in his eyes. “I know not, milord. A stranger to me.”
Thorne gnashed his teeth. “You may tell the truth, Nescott. I release you.”
“I never saw this man before, I tell you.”
Thorne took a menacing step toward Nescott. “Damn it, man! I’ll have your head on a pike.”
Nescott began to blubber, waving his arms helplessly in front of him. “I… I want nothing to do with this business. I’ve said my piece. I’ll say no more.” He bowed to Sir Hugh. “By your leave, milord, I’ll withdraw.” He turned about and fled the room.
Pritchett sneered at Thorne. “Well, sirrah, what do you have to say now?”
Thorne rolled his eyes in frustration. There was no help from a spineless coward like Nescott. But perhaps… “In the village. Master Dobson. You all know him well. He’s my valet. Send for him.”
It seemed forever until Dobson appeared. Thorne had never been so happy to see the man in his life. “Tell them who I am, Dobson.”
Dobson bowed politely to the gentlemen. “Milords. This is John Havilland, Duke of Thorneleigh, of London and Sussex.” He turned concerned eyes toward his master. “Are you safe and well, Your Grace?”
Thorne ignored the gasps of surprise from the assembled company, the bows and curtsies. He accepted Sir Hugh’s apologies with polite but hasty grace. All he could think about was Gloriana. He had to reach her. “I need a horse. At once, if you please.” He was about to leave, when he had one final thought. He turned to Pritchett with a scowl and rubbed his sore jaw. “You had best stay clear of me, sirrah!” He was pleased to see the man cringe in fear.
He galloped through the night, his heart pounding as fiercely as the horse’s hooves on the narrow path. He smelled the smoke before he reached the clearing. The forge was ablaze, shooting flames high into the sky. He dismounted and raced to the cottage, calling her name. He took the steps two at a time and burst into her bedchamber. On the floor was her silken gown, torn to shreds. He threw open her small chest and found it empty. Returning to the room below, he saw that her strongbox was gone.
Too late, he thought with a heavy heart.
He dropped to his knees and groaned, cursing himself for his stupidity, for his thoughtless arrogance. “God help me, I’ll find you again, my sweet,” he whispered.
Chapter Eleven
Thorne stumbled along the cobbled street in Tunbridge Wells, his head spinning. That last glass of claret had been his undoing. Perhaps he’d take to the mineral baths on the morrow. They could restore his body, if not his soul. He kicked at the fallen leaves on the pavement, golden in the early twilight. October had come too soon, blotting out the warm days of summer. He glanced back in annoyance at Cleve Dobson, who followed behind. “Oh, go back to my rooms, Dobson,” he muttered. “I don’t need a chaperone at Lady Pelham’s reception.”
His valet frowned. “By your leave, Your Grace, would it not be wiser for you to retire for the evening? I fear there was far too much wine around the gaming table this afternoon.”
“By the cross of St. George, you sound like a maiden aunt! I won, didn’t I? Sober enough to best the fools who thought I’d lost my edge after the Baniard debacle. Including Felix.” He sighed, reluctant still to accept his self-imposed defeat. He was almost sorry he’d impulsively decided to forfeit the wager. “They’re all paid off, are they not?”
“Of course, Your Grace. Rogers was naturally vexed by the expense, but you can afford it.” Dobson hesitated. “Truth to tell,” he said at last, “I’m surprised you didn’t succeed with the Baniard woman. I’ve seen you seduce more difficult creatures with ease.”
Thorne studied his valet’s face, a mask of neutral propriety. He wondered if Dobson had guessed the truth. After all, the man had witnessed his weeks of moping after they had returned from Whitby, a sadness he had not been able to shake until he’d begun to throw himself back into his old life of easy pleasures. The comfort of the familiar. “Pah!” he said with a snort. “I lost interest. The creature was a strumpet, and I was never able to see beyond her stained past.” He pointed down the street. “Now go back to my lodgings. The evening air will clear my head before I reach Lady Pelham’s rooms.”
He watched Dobson turn the corner, then sighed again. He must have been mad this summer, still intoxicated with the memory of Gloriana dancing in the Shropshire moonlight. She was nothing but a whore. The very symbol of a woman’s faithlessness. More wanton even than his mother had been. What a fool he’d been to entertain the possibility of marrying her. To lower his pride, his family honor, to such a level. How soon before she would have tired of him, sought out other men, disgraced the title he had almost been prepared to bestow upon her?
No. A woman like that lived only for the moment, filled with unending desire for a man. Any man. He recalled her behavior each time he had bedded her—her immodest responses, her brazen eagerness for their next encounter. She had used him only to satisfy her prodigious lust. How soon would she have abandoned him, once her hungers had abated?
And of course she was desperate to pass as a lady. And he’d been her dupe, her willing tutor. He cringed, recalling the many times he’d had to swallow his pride, to pretend that he was not better than she, or anyone else in W
hitby. The sooner he forgot that shameful episode, the better off he would be. He was glad now that he hadn’t set his men to finding her again. It humiliated him to remember how he had behaved—like a besotted mooncalf—those last few days with her.
He climbed the steps to Lady Pelham’s rooms, grateful that he felt a bit more sober than when he’d left the gaming hall. He handed his hat to a waiting footman, smoothed his hair—unencumbered by a bothersome periwig—and entered the lady’s parlor, almost automatically surveying the room to see what beauties were present.
“Damme,” he muttered in consternation. At his entrance, a bewitching blond, elegantly clad in fragile pink, had risen from her chair and was now gliding toward him. He bowed, a frozen smile on his face. “Lady Penelope.”
Lady Penelope Crawford gave him a simpering smile. “Thorne, my dear.”
“What brings you to Tunbridge?”
Her blue-eyed gaze was innocent, yet enticing. “You. I missed your presence over the summer. So when I heard you were coming to take the waters here, I made it my business to follow you.”
He cleared his throat. “If you mean to remind me of your absurd wager…”
She laughed, an aristocratic titter, so unlike Gloriana’s boisterous guffaws. “Oh, do forgive me, my dear. That was offered in a moment of madness. I don’t intend to force you into vows you don’t wish to take. I merely wish to enjoy your company, which I have sorely missed.”
He smiled his pleasure and relief, took her hand, and kissed it. “You are too gracious, milady.” He wondered why he had been preparing to cast her aside. She was so polished, so cultured. Everything he had always admired in a woman. He had kissed her more than once, and enjoyed it, though it would never have occurred to him to invite her into his bed and insult her refined sensibilities. “How long do you intend to stay here?”
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