The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

“Beck’s Hollow,” Thorne said with a nod, pride in his voice.

  Gwynneth looked from the towering oaks across the ravine to the mossy granite boulders mirrored in the beck. “Such sanctuary,” she breathed.

  Thorne’s heart leapt as he eyed her delicate profile. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

  Dismounting, they left the horses to graze in the heath. Thorne bent down at one boulder’s jutting tip and retrieved a corked bottle from a rocky cache in the water. “Nicely chilled,” he remarked, taking a corkscrew, two glasses, and a linen-wrapped flatbread from Raven’s cantle pouch and setting them down. He broke off some gorse and swept a section of boulder clean.

  “Wine,” Gwynneth announced, arranging her skirts and shaking her head at the glass Thorne offered, “is for priests, and only at Holy Mass.”

  He smiled. “And I am no priest, am I, Miss Stowington? Nor saint, like your beloved Sister Theresa Bernard at the convent.” He handed Gwynneth the flatbread. “I did notice your glass went untouched at supper last night. Yet Christ himself drank wine.” He took a drink from the bottle now that there was to be no sharing.

  “Won’t you tell me about your home?” Gwynneth said in a brittle voice.

  Thorne shrugged, then stretched out and propped himself on an elbow. “Not much to tell, I fear. Old, drafty. Built by my fourth great-grandfather, Thomas Thorneton Neville.”

  “Has it some history of note?”

  “Some. A tragedy, really. Though somewhat indelicate for a young lady’s ears.”

  Gwynneth elevated her chin. “I am no child, my lord.”

  “Indeed you are not,” Thorne agreed quietly, resisting a glance at her high-necked but shapely bodice. Her sudden blush quickened his blood. He took another drink of wine to gather his wits. “Then prepare to be scandalized,” he said, corking the bottle and setting it beside the untouched flatbread Gwynneth had put between them. “It began with my great-great-Aunt Agnes conceiving a child at the age of eight-and-twenty.”

  Gwynneth shrugged. “Older women have borne children.”

  “Aye, but Agnes was a spinster.”

  “Oh!” Gwynneth’s cheeks turned scarlet. “Wh-who was the father?”

  “The village vicar.”

  Gwynneth gasped. “A man of God? What became of them?”

  “The vicar disappeared soon after poor Agnes gave him the news. Abandoned his wife, as well.”

  “His w-” Gwynneth broke off, her shocked expression turning indignant. “Then I should hope Agnes was shut away, or came to some other such end.”

  “Another end altogether. She died of a crushed skull and broken neck, after leaping from the battlements atop the tower.”

  Gwynneth slid her horrified gaze to the east. “That tower?”

  Thorne nodded.

  “She took her own life and the babe’s with it?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Where was she buried?”

  “In the manor church yard.”

  “In hallowed ground?” Gwynneth cried.

  “Yes, along with all the other imperfect folk whose lives have graced the Hall, may God rest her soul along with theirs.” He felt his heart sink as Gwynneth’s expression hardened.

  “Be assured,” she said coolly, “that adultery, fornication, and suicide sent your Aunt Agnes’ soul to a place entirely bereft of God, where she is more likely writhing in flames than resting. At least,” she added with an air of grim satisfaction, “the vicar’s wife was avenged for her husband’s sin.” Turning her palms upward, she shrugged, then smiled as if pleased with her conclusion.

  That childish gesture thawed the ice forming in Thorne’s veins. Surely time and gentle guidance would temper Gwynneth’s narrow, convent views.

  Or so he hoped. “If you can forgive Wycliffe Hall its one scandal, what would you say to a long visit when you return from London?”

  A small furrow formed in Gwynneth’s brow as she finally tore a piece off the flatbread. “You are inviting us to stay at Wycliffe Hall indefinitely?”

  Thorne chortled. “Wild horses couldn’t keep your father away from Radleigh Hall. I was referring to you.”

  The furrow in Gwynneth’s brow deepened while she chewed the bread, which went down with an audible swallow. “And just what would you intend, my lord, seeing my father off to his home and lodging me under your roof?”

  “My intentions are honorable, that I can tell you.” He heard her breath catch as he took her hand and brushed his lips over the back of it. Damn Radleigh for his spinelessness! Gwynneth Stowington was ripe and so obviously and ready for plucking.

  A crumb of flatbread clung to her lower lip. Unable to resist, Thorne let go her hand to brush it away—and unexpectedly had his middle finger branded by a single, searing flick of Gwynneth’s tongue.

  A jolt of exquisite pain struck him in the groin. His finger stayed as if melded to her lip, for though he knew her touch was only a reflex, the innocent eroticism of the gesture had paralyzed his entire body.

  Except for one appendage. Thorne suddenly wished he’d worn a waistcoat. Pushing himself up off the boulder, he rose on unsteady legs. No fault of the wine, he thought with a wince.

  “My lord?” Her voice sounded far away. “What is it, what ails you?”

  Barely able to speak, Thorne held up a hand, then hobbled down the bank until he recovered his normal gait. He returned to find Gwynneth tucking the half-empty bottle into his cantle pouch.

  “Why-” she began, but broke off as Thorne shook his head. He boosted her onto Abigail.

  “Forgive me, Miss Stowington.” Tightening the mare’s girth, he gave Gwynneth a rueful smile. “But you are an angel in a woman’s body…and the devil stands ready to take me to hell.”

  *

  Thorne marked his place in the ledger on his desk, then glanced up from under his brow. “Why don’t you inquire, Arthur? Instead of staring holes in my face.”

  “Forgive me, M’lord, I’d no idea I was staring. Quite rude of me.”

  Thorne slammed the ledger shut. “Yes, rude, you old fox. Are you not the least bit curious about the lady?”

  “I’d quite forgotten her, M’lord, having seen neither hide nor hair of her. Perhaps she’s of a more spiritual breed?”

  Thorne pulled a wry face. “Very clever. Well I’ve seen both, though more hair than hide.” He shoved the ledger aside and crossed his feet upon the desk. “And you would have seen her, had you not ducked out the instant Jennings announced them.”

  “I was better attired to greet their horses,” Arthur reminded him wryly. “At any rate, should you insist upon discussing the lady, I’m game to listen.”

  “Oh, I insist. But I want more than your ear. Will a Scotch whiskey loosen your tongue? There’s a fresh decanter on the way.”

  As if on cue, Elaine Combs knocked upon the door, which Thorne had left ajar. He waved her in. She set the decanter on the desk, curtseyed, and turned to go.

  “‘Tis your eyes, Combs.”

  She halted in her tracks, then turned slowly to face him. “M’lord?” she said faintly.

  “I’ve decided it is your eyes that seem familiar.”

  “M-my…eyes?” The orbs in question widened.

  “Yes. They’re the queerest gray, like doves. Almost silver.”

  Suddenly Thorne felt foolish. Arthur was staring at him as warily as Combs was.

  “You may go, Combs.” He’d meant to sound brusque, not harsh. Yet she looked relieved. Irritated and befuddled, Thorne turned his back on her exit, and poured the liquor into two glasses.

  An unexpected wave of nostalgia struck him as he recalled his father doing the same for the steward from behind this very desk. Passing Arthur a glass, Thorne saw his thoughts reflected in the old brown eyes. “To my father,” he murmured, raising his glass.

  “To Lord Neville,” Arthur agreed, doing likewise. “Past and present.”

  Thorne’s glass stayed high. “And to Arthur Pennington, our loyal steward and friend
. How long has it been?”

  “Thirty years, M’lord. Yet even now I can picture your father sitting in that chair and looking as young as you.”

  The whiskey sent flames coursing down Thorne’s throat and into his belly, where it settled in a pleasant pool of warmth. Turning his glass to and fro in his fingers, he watched the amber liquid swirl and shift. “I find myself in a quandary, Arthur.”

  “Over what, sir?”

  Thorne grimaced. “You’ll not make this any easier, will you.”

  “Nothing involving a woman is easy,” Arthur said with a lopsided smile.

  Thorne knocked back the rest of the dram and set the glass down. “She’s a bold one, to be so young.”

  A flicker of concern crossed Arthur’s face. “There’s something to be said for boldness,” he allowed, “within reason.”

  Thorne chuckled. “She is Radleigh’s daughter, after all.”

  “Aye. And hence rather homely, I’d guess.”

  “No, quite comely. And well-schooled, and most virtuous.” Thorne poured a second glass with a flourish and extended the bottle.

  Arthur held out his glass. “Well, you’d expect virtuosity, wouldn’t you, what with her being raised in a convent and all?”

  “Yes. But once we’re wed, she’ll surely shed some of her more rigid notions.”

  Arthur’s mouth opened and closed.

  “What? If you’ve something to say, then say it.”

  Cupping the glass of whiskey in his hands, Arthur sat back in the chair. “Very well. Where’s the need for haste? You’re young, and whatever attraction you feel for the girl is merely carnal at this stage.” Arthur’s leathery cheeks turned ruddy. “Courtship is no luxury, M’lord, ‘tis a necessity. Love requires time to grow. My Anna and I-”

  “I see no point in waiting. ‘Twas my father’s wish that I marry Radleigh’s daughter. Little enough for me to promise a dying man.”

  Arthur leaned forward in his chair. “Little? And your loyalty is commendable, but what of the rumors? What if Radleigh has gambled away his fortune, perhaps even his daughter’s dowry? Would your father hold you to your promise, knowing that?”

  Thorne gave a snort. “Any decline in Radleigh’s finances is likely due to the bloody taxes the Crown levies on him for his Roman Catholic loyalties. At any rate, he’s given up the tables. He told me so over brandy last eve.”

  “Thorne—M’lord.” Arthur shook his head with an air of weary patience. “You know as well as I that if Radleigh has forsworn the gaming tables, he’s likely up to his eyeballs in debt.”

  “Time will tell.”

  “Aye, I fear it will. Meanwhile, what of love? There’s a debt that won’t go unpaid, I assure you.”

  Thorne sighed, dragging his feet off the desk. “Marriages are made every day for naught but fortune, pedigree and politics, Arthur. And what bloody good has love ever done anyone?”

  Arthur looked aggrieved. “Your parents-”

  “Were fools.”

  Arthur recoiled in his seat. “I was about to say they loved one another dearly!”

  “Yes, and all the more suffered for it! And lest you think me a blathering idiot, I have it on my father’s dying word.” Thorne tossed the whiskey down his gullet as he rose, then slammed the glass down and paced to a window. He stared out at the sparkling beck and the field of young wheat beyond, seeing none of it.

  Arthur sounded quiet but insistent. “Whatever his lordship said, ‘twas likely the laudanum talking. Delirium at best.”

  “‘Twas my father.” Thorne turned a hard stare on the steward. “His voice, his eyes. His hand that gripped my arm with more strength than he’d shown in months. ‘Twas he who warned me to guard my heart from anything the least akin to love. ‘Marry the girl, as I’ve promised her father, and sire a family,’ he told me. ‘But never let your heart be taken. Love, my son, is naught but sweet, slow poison.’ That is what he told me, Arthur. And I haven’t forgotten one bloody word of it.”

  Tears shone in Arthur’s eyes. “Yet he loved your mother, heart and soul.”

  “Precisely.” Thorne gave him a chilling smile. “And for nearly two decades, I watched him walk as a dead man among the living. He could no longer be Catherine Neville’s husband, nor could he be a father to me, because when she died, she took his bleeding heart with her to the grave.” Despising the sudden thickness in his voice, Thorne turned abruptly to the window. When the beech trees across the road swam back into focus, he said more calmly, “So you’ll understand why I don’t for a moment take ‘love’ into account when reckoning Miss Stowington’s suitability as a wife.”

  Arthur sighed. “I might understand, M’lord. But I’ll never agree.”

  *

  Elaine Combs looked up as Lord Radleigh poked his head around the door.

  “Gwynneth?”

  The Honourable Miss Stowington opened one green eye and sighed. “What is it, Father? I told you I’ve a dreadful headache. I must rest.”

  Chuckling, Lord Radleigh entered and drew near the bed, where Elaine sat cooling his daughter’s brow with a damp cloth. “I saw the half-empty bottle Lord Neville brought back today. There’s a price to drinking fermented beverages, Daughter.”

  “You should know. But I did not imbibe. Never have, and never shall.”

  His smile disappeared. “I’ll let that first remark pass, ‘tis the pain talking. You’ll be glad to know that Lord Neville has informed his cook of your aching head. She’s brewing a potent lavender-rosemary tea for it as we speak.”

  Miss Stowington opened her other eye. “She’s an herbalist? I thought I smelled thyme and mint outdoors. No roses, though.” She sighed. “I adore roses, we’d hundreds at Saint Mary’s.”

  Her father leaned over her, a twinkle in his gaze. “If there aren’t any now, I’d wager there soon will be.” His eyes widened as soon as he said it; harrumphing, he pounded his chest and straightened, then asked hastily, “Are you up to traveling tomorrow, Daughter? We could stay an extra day if you like.”

  Elaine hastily lifted the cloth, as Miss Stowington started to raise her head but then winced and fell back onto the pillow. “You,” the girl accused her father with a gasp, “are scheming to marry me off!”

  Elaine’s stomach flipped as she saw the flustered look on Lord Radleigh’s face. The rumors she had so despaired of must be true.

  “I’m doing no such thing!” he protested. “But now that you mention it”—he lowered his hulk onto the side of the bed and leaned toward his daughter—“‘twould benefit all concerned were you to marry Lord Neville, yourself as well. He’s a very generous and just man, much respected-”

  “And far too astute to be manipulated by you.”

  Lord Radleigh’s face flushed. “Hold your tongue, girl, and think on it! This grand Hall”—his hand swept the air in a wide arc—“and all its gardens would be yours to oversee, with some two-score of servants under your command.”

  Tasting gall, Elaine hastily rinsed out the cloth, then rose and busied herself brushing the dusty hem of the convent frock Miss Stowington had laid over a chair.

  “But I’m needed at Radleigh Hall! Or so you said.”

  “‘Twould be too much to ask, now that I ponder it again,” Lord Radleigh said with a sigh. “The Hall is in disrepair and my servants are fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. And caring for me might prove a hardship for you, what with my gout and all.”

  He lowered his voice, but not enough, further amazing Elaine with what gentry would say in front of servants.

  “You’d be set for life here at Wycliffe Hall, Gwynneth. So would your children. And Thorne would see to my comfort in my old age, and to Radleigh Hall’s restoration and maintenance. After all, the place would be his upon my passing.”

  His daughter’s tone turned brittle. “Where has your fortune gone, Father? Have I a dowry to offer?”

  Glancing sidelong, Elaine saw the viscount’s shoulders sag.

  “I’ve incurred a sizea
ble debt to the Earl of…a certain earl,” he confessed. “I’d no choice but to use a part of your dowry as collateral.”

  “Then Lord Neville will not want me,” his daughter retorted, making Elaine’s heart skip a beat. “You might as well send me back to the convent.”

  “Ha! You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Another glance showed the viscount wagging a finger near the girl’s face. “You’ll have your dowry, never fear,” he assured her. “You’re quite the catch at any rate, with your beauty and virtue and skills.” Elaine pictured a wink with his next words. “Lord Neville’s not so hard on the eyes, either, eh?”

  Elaine’s heart sank as she saw the virtuous young “catch” blush and trace a finger over the moiré silk counterpane.

  “He is a handsome enough man,” was the girl’s soft admission. “Kind, as well.”

  Radleigh chuckled. “He’d get a house full of children on you, girl. He’s a vigorous man. He’d seek your bed often.”

  “Stop, Father!”

  Elaine silently echoed the plea, her stomach twisting. Yet she could not resist another glance. Eyes closed, Miss Stowington had pressed a hand to her heart and taken a fan from her sleeve. Her father promptly confiscated it to wave gusts of air onto her burning face.

  “Well, Daughter?”

  “I shall think about it,” she conceded breathlessly, opening glazed eyes. “But not a word to him, I warn you. I’ve no idea whether he desires-”

  “Oh, he desires all right,” Radleigh cut in, sounding smug. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. He desires wholeheartedly.”

  Elaine covertly clutched her midsection, trying not to bend double.

  “I meant marriage, not me.”

  Turning her head slightly, Elaine saw all trace of the blushing virgin vanish as Gwynneth Stowington reached out and stilled the fan in her father’s hand.

  “For I can tell you this, Father,” she vowed grimly. “I shan’t marry anyone just to repay your gambling debts. Never shall I enter the sacrament of marriage to pay for a sin.”

  THREE

  From a window of her Georgian mansion, Caroline Sutherland stared across the brick-paved street at the greensward, where a duck had just waded from the pond to follow a big-breasted dowager walking a terrier. No doubt the bird mistook the waddling woman for his mother.