Lady Lyte's Little Secret

by Deborah Hale

  “I’m not half good enough for you.”

  Could what Ivy said be true? Or was he only clinging to a hopeful falsehood because he wasn’t man enough to face the truth?

  “You must go after her, Thorn.” Ivy grasped his hand with such force it almost made him cry out. “I know once she’s had a chance to think things through, Lady Lyte will realize she was wrong. And what else is there to do on a long carriage drive but think?”

  If only his innocent little sister knew! A searing blush crept upward from Thorn’s collar.

  Just then, Oliver Armitage appeared at the church door with an anxious expression on his lean, clever face.

  Ivy glanced toward him, her eyes dancing with devilish glee. “Unless one has congenial company, that is!”

  Perhaps the little minx knew almost as much as he did, Thorn decided, remembering the passionate embrace in which he’d caught Ivy and Oliver that morning.

  Oliver Armitage cocked an eyebrow at his bride as if to ask what she found so confoundedly amusing while he was a perfect bundle of nerves. “I feared you’d got a case of cold feet and persuaded your brother to fetch you back home again.”

  “Never!” The sparkle in Ivy’s eyes deepened into a fond glow as she gazed at her husband-to-be. “I was only giving Thorn the benefit of more matchmaking advice…after I swore to myself I’d never play Cupid again.”

  “Come along then, Lady Cupid.” Thorn tucked his sister’s hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let’s not keep your bridegroom waiting any longer.”

  Oliver ducked back inside the sanctuary again, while Thorn and Ivy followed at a more decorous pace.

  As they reached the church door, Ivy hesitated on the threshold. For a moment Thorn wondered if she was having second thoughts.

  His sister glanced up at him. “Will you do something for me, Thorn—as a wedding present?”

  How had she known that he regretted having no gift for her on this special day?

  “Very well, my dear. Name your favor.”

  “Go after Lady Lyte, if only to make certain she gets back to Trentwell safely. I know Oliver is worried about her and feels badly for going against her wishes after how good she’s been to him.”

  The little minx! “Hadn’t you ought to be thinking about your own romantic connection, now, rather than meddling in mine?”

  She turned her sweet imploring gaze upon him, the one Thorn had never succeeded in resisting. “You wouldn’t disappoint your little sister on her wedding day, would you?”

  Young Armitage would have his work cut out for him managing this one. Thorn rolled his eyes and muttered a grudging, “Very well, then, but only because I’m afraid you’ll keep me here arguing at the church door until your poor bridegroom does something desperate.”

  Ivy squeezed his arm and treated him to the warm doting smile she always wore when she had gotten her way. “You won’t be sorry, I promise you. Love has great power, you know, if only we have the courage to use it.”

  A shiver went through Thorn. Where had he heard those words before?

  “Come on, then,” whispered Ivy, tugging him forward. “I don’t want to keep poor Oliver waiting.”

  As he made his way to the foot of the altar, with Ivy on his arm, Thorn cast an approving glance around the simple Scottish church. Oliver and Ivy might have eloped to Gretna, but Thorn had insisted on a proper Christian ceremony to bless their union. No hasty, furtive rite performed over an anvil by a “blacksmith priest” for his sister!

  The vicar cleared his throat and scarcely glanced down at his prayer book as he began to speak the familiar words, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

  A short time later, when he asked who gave this woman to be joined in wedlock, Thorn answered, “I do” in a firm, confident voice. Yet he placed Ivy’s hand in her bridegroom’s with a sense of wistful reluctance.

  Why, it seemed just the other day he’d gathered the downy little creature from her cradle and borne her off to say one last goodbye to their dead mother, even though he knew the baby would never remember it.

  Here she stood before him, after those swiftly passing years, speaking her vows in a clear melodious voice. A beautiful young woman, sometimes impulsive and frivolous but always kind-hearted and hopeful. He’d done his best for her, ill-equipped though he’d been for the task.

  Now he must entrust responsibility for her to a young man who looked anxious and adoring, in equal measure. A young man who, unless Thorn missed his guess, had little experience with the fair sex. Oh well, Ivy had managed to thrive in spite of an unseasoned surrogate father. A green husband would not likely put her off her stride.

  A mellow warmth settled deep in Thorn Greenwood’s heart, unkindled by any doing of his. As if his mother were trying to tell him, in the only way she could, that she approved the loving, muddled job he’d made of bringing up her baby.

  Suddenly, he knew where he had first heard Ivy’s naively wise advice about the power of love and the courage to use it. Long ago, when his mother had told him fairy stories of enchanted princesses rescued from the spells that held them captive by the kiss of true love.

  Certainly Felicity was everything he had ever imagined in a fairy-tale princess. Had her past woven an evil spell around her heart?

  He was no fairy-tale prince, more like the frog in another of his mother’s stories. Was it possible he might have the power to break Felicity’s curse? After the loathing he’d seen in her eyes and heard in her voice this morning, did he have the courage to try?

  Perhaps, but first he had one final brotherly duty to discharge.

  Once they’d finished signing the marriage register, while Ivy inquired of the vicar and his wife if they could recommend a good inn, Thorn drew his new brother-in-law aside for a private word. “Be patient with her tonight, my boy, and treat her gently.”

  It could have been worse, he supposed. At least he hadn’t had to repeat the agonizing embarrassment of informing his sister what sharing a bed with her husband would entail. He’d needed a very deep snifter of brandy after his brotherly wedding eve chat with Rosemary.

  “I love Ivy very much, Mr. Greenwood,” said Oliver…as if he needed to when his face glowed with an ardor almost too bright for Thorn to bear. “You have my word, I’ll never do anything to harm or frighten her.”

  Staring at the church floor as he scuffed it with the toe of his boot, the bridegroom confessed, “Just between us, your sister seems to have more information about the whole process than I do.”

  Thorn tried to stifle a smile. Apparently Rosemary had done a better job than he at preparing their younger sister for what awaited on her wedding night.

  “It sounds as though you’re both in good hands, then. Once you get back to England, the two of you are welcome to make your home at Barnhill for as long as you need or wish.”

  Oliver’s eyes shone with gratitude, as though Thorn had just given him the most precious wedding gift in the world. “I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make certain Ivy never regrets her decision to wed me.”

  “Do that, and I will be proud to call you my brother.” Thorn extended his hand, which Oliver clasped in a firm, warm grip.

  “Now I must go.” Thorn’s gaze strayed south, toward Solway Firth and England as he wondered where Oliver’s aunt might be by now. “Ivy insists I pursue Felicity and see that she doesn’t come to any harm on the journey south…even if I’m obliged to watch over her from a distance.”

  He still had Weston St. Just’s horse and the porter in Carlisle had refunded him enough to finance frugal meals and beds on his journey. Though Thorn chafed a bit at the idea of using Felicity’s money, he excused himself on the grounds that he would be doing her a service, whether she wanted it or not.

  Ivy appeared at Oliver’s side. “You had better get on your way if you’re to have any hope of overtaking Lady Lyte.”

  Catching her
brother in a fierce embrace, she kissed him soundly on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Thorn, and don’t worry your head about me.” She cast a fond glance at her new husband. “I’m in capable hands.”

  “So you are.” He had better not linger, Thorn warned himself or he might begin to wax maudlin. “Behave yourself and heed your husband. He has a good sensible head on his shoulders, and I can bear witness that you made a vow to obey him.”

  “Men!” protested Ivy with an impish grin that announced she’d obey her husband only so far as she was inclined. “How you all club together! I’m going to make Oliver the most devoted wife you can imagine.”

  “I believe you shall, dear heart.” Thorn quashed a tiny spark of envy for the happy years he pictured stretching before Ivy and Oliver. “Now, I mustn’t trespass on your honeymoon a moment longer.”

  A short while later he was riding toward Carlisle, wondering how he’d let Ivy wind him around her finger yet again.

  It had been one thing to follow Felicity from Bath, against her express wishes. At least then he could honestly claim to be acting in the interests of his sister. Even if part of his aim had been to keep watch over Felicity. In his secret heart of hearts, perhaps he’d nursed a faint hope that they might reconcile…for a little while, at least.

  This time, for all he might protest otherwise, it would appear as though he was trailing after his former mistress, hoping he could persuade her to give him one last chance. When, in fact, he wasn’t certain he dared take another chance on her.

  A prudent man knew when to cut his losses.

  Thorn’s father had not been a prudent man, throwing good money after bad in a vain and increasingly desperate effort to recoup his fortunes. More than anything, Thorn did not want to follow in his father’s unfortunate footsteps.

  His sister had been right about a long journey providing time for reflection, Thorn decided as he traveled south, through the austere, rugged beauty of the borderlands. Too much time, perhaps, for regrets and worries, which seemed to wait around each bend in the road to ambush him.

  Would he be able to find Felicity, even? Unless he stopped to inquire after her at every inn he passed, he ran the risk of outstripping her without knowing it. Yet, if she had resolved to press southward with all haste, each stop he made would put him farther and farther behind her.

  Perhaps that would provide a convenient excuse for failing to do what he had promised his sister, Thorn told himself as he happened upon a northbound carriage halted by the side of the road.

  A liveried footman flagged him down.

  Thorn reined his mount to a stop. “Is something the matter? Can I help?”

  “Aye, sir, if you’d be so kind.” The young man nodded toward his employer’s carriage. “Our back wheel got damaged when it dipped into the ditch. We came through a village two miles back that had a smithy.”

  A stocky middle-aged man who might have been the driver appeared just then from behind the carriage, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows and his hands well blackened. “I offered to unhitch one of our team for the lad to ride back and bring help, but he’s frighted about managing a carriage horse bareback.”

  The man’s thick gray brows bristled as he glared at the lad. “Time was I could ride anything four-legged that was big enough to bear my weight with naught but a hank of rope for a bridle. But my riding days are over, I fear.”

  “I’m bound that way in any case.” Thorn leaned forward, extending his hand to the boy. “I doubt my horse will notice your weight.”

  He swung the slight young footman up behind him and urged his horse forward.

  “I’m much obliged for your kindness sir.” The way the lad clung to Thorn’s coat told him the footman was far from comfortable on horseback under any circumstances.

  “Have you come a long way today?” Thorn called over his shoulder, hoping to distract the young fellow, and perhaps gain some news of Felicity into the bargain.

  “Not a very great way, sir,” replied the lad. “Only from Brough.”

  Little chance they’d meet Felicity on the road, then, since the town of Brough lay a few hours south of Penrith on the coach route to London.

  “I don’t imagine you met a fine traveling coach on the road between here and Penrith?” Thorn heard himself describing Felicity’s carriage down to the Lyte coat-of-arms painted on the doors, though he knew perfectly well it was useless to ask.

  Useless it might be, but the footman still needed something to divert his attention from the speed of the horse and their distance from the ground. And Thorn had made a promise to his sister. However distasteful he might find it, he would keep that promise to the best of his ability.

  “No, sir…”

  Ah well, he hadn’t expected so, but worth a try.

  “…not on the road, sir.”

  What? Thorn started, provoking the horse to toss its mane and gallop faster.

  The young footman abandoned all dignity, throwing his arms clear around Thorn’s waist and clinging for dear life. “A-at an inn h-halfway between here and Penrith, sir, when we stopped for a bite of supper. I saw that rig in the courtyard and thought how fine it looked.”

  Despite all his misgivings, a strange eagerness kindled itself deep inside of him at the thought of Felicity so near at hand.

  “Godspeed, sir.” The young footman waved Thorn on his way a short while later. “I hope you find the lady better than she was when we left.”

  “What’s that you say?” Thorn bridled his horse sharply.

  “That lady, sir. The one with the fine carriage. I heard tell she’d stopped at the inn because she’d been taken ill on the road.”

  “Dammit, lad, why did you not say so before?” A blaze of concern for Felicity consumed all the other conflicting emotions in Thorn’s heart.

  The young footman at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself. “I thought if you knew…you might make the horse go faster, sir.”

  What the lad said was true enough, and understandable, but that did not make it a whit more palatable to Thorn. Cursing under his breath, he pointed his mount south and gave it a taste of leather.

  Though the beast galloped like the wind, it could not outrun the dark fear that stalked its rider.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Will I lose my baby?”

  Though her pain had vastly diminished after a mild purging, Felicity still braced herself for bad news. She had been disappointed too often by life to summon much hope.

  The innkeeper’s wife, a big raw-boned North Country woman, tucked the bedclothes around Felicity with a surprisingly gentle touch, but she gave her answer in a vigorous, bracing voice.

  “Miscarry, ye mean? Nay, lass, I think not.”

  She straightened from her crouch over the bed and planted her hands on her broad hips. “Ye may trust my judgment in the matter, too, for I’ve brought scores of babes into this world these past twenty years. I get called into Penrith for a lying-in often enough. Lasses from these parts who’ve wed town lads. Naught will do for ’em but to have Mother Merryvale attend their lying-in.”

  The weight pressing down on Felicity’s heart eased a little. “How fortunate I should land in your care, Mrs. Merryvale. You’ve been most skilled and most kind.”

  She could not remember ever having been taken charge of in such a forceful, yet agreeable manner, except on one or two occasions when she had let her guard down with Thorn.

  “Better fortune than ye deserve, I daresay.” Mrs. Merryvale scolded gently as she bustled around the room, lifting a small kettle off the hob and pouring steaming water into a mug. “And yer husband. What can he have been thinking to let ye make such a long journey when ye’re breeding?”

  “I have no husband, Mrs. Merryvale.” Might as well get used to telling the story she would be obliged to tell for many years to come. “I’m a widow.”

  It was no lie, she protested to her conscience. Mrs. Merryvale didn’t need to know how long her husband had been
dead or that Percy had not been the father of her unborn child. In a curious way, her parting from Thorn felt like widowing in a way Percy’s death had not.

  “Poor lass!” The innkeeper’s wife clucked in sympathy. “Then I reckon it’s not much wonder ye haven’t taken proper care of yerself. But ye must, ye know, for the sake of that little one yer carrying.”

  Felicity gave an obedient nod.

  “Ye don’t mean to give that pleasant-spoken Master Ned the sack do ye?” asked Mrs. Merryvale. “For making ye stop here when ye would have driven on?”

  The prospect must be weighing heavily on her servants, if they had communicated their worries to the innkeeper’s wife.

  Felicity shook her head. The fright she had taken, on top of the emotional reverses of the day, must have sapped her strength…or perhaps broken her stubbornness.

  “No, I shan’t sack him or my driver. Rather they deserve a reward for looking after me better than I was prepared to look after myself.”

  Her servants had stood to gain nothing—and risked losing much—by challenging her authority.

  It was not an easy notion for her to digest, that someone might oppose her will, yet have her well-being at heart, not their own. From her earliest years she’d been conditioned to look out for her own interests, certain that no one else would. Her marriage had bolstered that belief.

  Or perhaps fallen victim to it?

  Now her relations with the two people she loved best in the world had been soured by it, as well.

  “Has the pain got worse again, my dear?” asked Mrs. Merryvale. She strode toward the bed bearing the mug she’d just filled.

  “No.” Felicity tried to smile. “It eased a good deal after that physic you gave me.”

  The ache in her belly, perhaps. But the one in her heart had grown more severe. Even an experienced midwife like Mrs. Merryvale could have no remedy for that.

  The innkeeper’s wife appeared to think otherwise. “Sip away at this.” She wrapped Felicity’s hands around the warm mug. “It’s a brew of this and that from my garden. Naught that’ll harm ye or the babe, but it may ease ye. It’s rest ye need as much as anything, and I don’t just say so to keep ye lodging here the longer.”