The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  Did he only imagine the fleeting panic in her expression? Her reply sounded quite poised.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  *

  “I’m going home.” Radleigh tore a morsel of roast pheasant off the bone and chewed it with obvious relish. “I’d hardly be worth my salt as lord of the manor if I didn’t oversee at least a portion of my harvest. After that, I’ve business in London.”

  Gwynneth cast an alarmed glance at Thorne. “Do stay on with us, Father. You’ve a capable steward to manage all your affairs at Radleigh Hall, and an agent in London.”

  “Radleigh,” Thorne spoke up hastily, “I’d be glad to have you on harvest rounds.”

  Radleigh drained his tankard, then shook his head. “My thanks, Neville, but I’m a man who yearns to touch his mother-soil from time to time. Surely you understand.”

  Thorne nodded, ignoring Gwynneth’s glare. “You’ll depart soon, then?”

  “In a day or two.”

  “I’ll have your coach readied. But we’ll expect you to return as soon as possible.”

  Nodding his thanks, Radleigh said gruffly, “So, Daughter, will you be sorry to see me go?”

  “‘Tis not your going that concerns me,” Gwynneth snapped. “‘Tis the doubtful prospect of your returning once you’ve indulged in London’s night life again.”

  The bushy eyebrows collided. “Neville, this chit wants taking down a peg, don’t you think?” Seeing Thorne’s ill-concealed smile, Radleigh scowled at Gwynneth. “You’ll think twice before giving your husband such sauce! Take no nonsense from this sharp-tongued wench, Thorne. Exact all due respect and devotion.”

  Still looking at his fatherin-law, but feeling Gwynneth’s wary gaze upon his own countenance, Thorne smiled wryly. “Your advice is well-taken, sir. I’ve every intention of following it.”

  *

  Leaving the men to their cigars and brandy in the library, Gwynneth fled to her chambers and found a filled tub awaiting her. Struggling yet again with the fastenings at her back, she heard a knock at the door and froze, until a woman’s voice said that Combs was indisposed and Dame Carswell had sent her instead.

  “Byrnes” proved eager to please, but clumsy. “Do hurry,” Gwynneth fretted. “I must be out of the bath and into bed as soon as possible.”

  Rejecting Byrnes’ awkward attempts to wield the sponge, she instructed her to turn back the bedcovers instead. Hence it was only the maid who saw the curtain move in the archway, and who stared wide-eyed at Thorne as he slipped through the velvet panels.

  Putting a finger to his lips, he held the curtain aside. Byrnes shot a quick glance at her mistress, now immersed to the neck in her bath, before curtseying to the master and making a silent exit.

  Lazy flames licked the applewood logs in the grate, their rosy light tinting Gwynneth’s creamy skin and burnishing her upswept hair with copper. Thorne watched her in silence, reluctant to disturb the enchanting scene, but as she moved to rise from the sudsy water, he spoke up quietly. “Before you stand, my lady, be aware I stand behind you.”

  She gasped, gripping the tub’s edge.

  Thorne approached slowly. “Good evening, my lady.”

  He saw her glance downward, where her body was well hidden by the thick suds, before she met his eyes. “How do you do, my lord?”

  The greeting was so breezy and unexpected it was all Thorne could do to keep a straight face. “I do quite well, thank you.”

  “And my father…inebriated as usual? I trust he’s safely retired for the night?”

  “He is indeed, and has left me quite at odds for a way to fill my leisure time this evening.”

  Gwynneth’s gaze lowered to Thorne’s lips. “‘Tis a shame, my lord.”

  “Perhaps you could propose some task for me.”

  “I shall think on it.”

  Thorne drew off his waistcoat and laid it over a chair, then knelt beside the tub.

  “You might hold my bath sheet up for me,” Gwynneth said hastily.

  “You’re a fast thinker, my lady. Fast on your feet. I’d like to see how fast.” Thorne dipped a hand into the water, and grinned at Gwynneth’s alarmed expression. Still she didn’t budge. “Very well then,” he said, lazily swirling the suds. “We’ll watch your metamorphosis instead.”

  “Into what?” she asked warily.

  “A prune, if I know my physiology. It should be quite a sight.”

  “My lord!” she exclaimed indignantly, and lobbed the waterlogged sponge at his head. Laughing, Thorne dodged and then retrieved it. Gwynneth actually giggled as he sauntered toward her holding the dripping sponge away from his shirt and breeches.

  “Carswell will have your hide, young lady, for waterspotting her floors.”

  “Her master will protect-” Gwynneth broke off with a gasp as Thorne fired the heavy sponge into the tub, spraying her squarely in the face. “Oh, you wretched man!” she sputtered. She shot up from the bath in an avalanche of suds and water, then shrieked as she remembered her nakedness.

  “Ssshh.” Thorne’s eyes twinkled as Gwynneth plummeted into the water again. “You’ll have the servants all a-twitter, my lady.” Fetching the bath sheet, he gently blotted her face, then spread the snow-white cloth in wordless invitation for her to rise again.

  She eyed him dubiously. “You won’t look.”

  “Won’t I?”

  “My lord! Promise you won’t look.”

  He grinned, shaking his head. “Sorry, but a white prune is a curiosity I cannot resist.”

  Gwynneth shot to her feet and grabbed the sheet, her body a blur.

  No matter. Time and patience were Thorne’s allies tonight. Chuckling, he steadied her as she stepped from the tub, then stayed her as she made to retreat. “I’ll attend you,” he said, his gaze holding hers. “We agreed, remember?”

  She nodded, surprising him, then closed her eyes while he gently blotted her shoulders and back dry.

  She stiffened when he untied the ribbon in her hair, and as he threaded his fingers through the silky length to smooth out any tangles, she clutched the corners of the bath sheet securely at her throat. Smiling behind her, Thorne knelt on the rug. Barely grazing her bottom, he resumed his blotting motions on her thighs, her knees, calves, ankles and feet.

  Rising, he slowly ran his hands over the sheet, up the entire length of Gwynneth’s body, his palms just skimming the fullness of her breasts. With deft but gentle fingers, he traced the curve of her shoulder and neck, then cupped the back of her head.

  She opened her eyes.

  Thorne had to swallow hard at sight of the sultry light in those green orbs, as they moved to his throat and then to his lips.

  “You’re dry, Milady,” he said, his voice husky. “What would your maid do next?”

  Blushing, Gwynneth gazed up at him through golden eyelashes. “She would fetch my shift. There, on the bed.”

  Without taking his eyes off his wife, Thorne picked up the length of embroidered lawn and held it over her head. The bath sheet dropped to her ankles just as the shift billowed downward, briefly exposing her thighs and calves. She started to tie the satin ribbons at the yoke, but stopped as Thorne shook his head. He took his time tying them for her, letting his fingers brush often against her skin. He noted the erratic pulse in her throat, the spreading stain in her cheeks. The seemingly innocent brush of his knuckles over one thinly covered nipple elicited a gasp, and through the diaphanous material he watched the tiny bud harden to an unmistakable point. Gwynneth’s eyes swept downward.

  The moment Thorne let go the ribbon, she turned to the sideboard, her shift fluttering about her bare ankles, and proceeded to pour a brandy. Accepting the glass, Thorne cocked an eyebrow. “‘Tis a fortunate maid I am, to receive such service from my mistress.”

  Gwynneth smiled, apparently more comfortable at play, and settled herself regally in a chair at the hearth. Bowing, Thorne did the same. “Forgive me for neglecting your bath water, Milady, but I should like to drink
my brandy first.” He raised his glass in salute.

  Gwynneth shook her head. “Beware, Maid,” she deadpanned. “You risk your situation for such impertinence, and for your lack of ambition. I’d better see a curtsey in place of that bow you just gave me.”

  Thorne quaffed the fiery liquid, thumped the glass down and sprang from his chair to kneel at her feet. “Please, Milady, don’t give me the sack!”

  Gwynneth giggled, then resumed a prim expression, her eyes twinkling. “If you truly desire to keep your situation, you must prove your worth.”

  “Whatever Milady asks shall be done.”

  “Then I should like to be kissed.”

  Ignoring the quickening in his loins, Thorne frowned and sat back on his heels. “Strange behavior for the mistress—requesting a kiss from the maid? Milady, I am shocked indeed!”

  Gwynneth laughed softly in spite of her blush. “Thorne, for shame! You mustn’t tease about such perversity.”

  Smiling, he came to his feet. “I’m quite ready and willing to follow Milady’s orders, but if it worries you to kiss this maid, I hereby resign my situation and reassign myself to the office of your husband—in hopes that you’ll give him similar orders.”

  Gwynneth tilted her head, her smile turning coy. “Aye, I should much rather be kissed by my husband.”

  “Then kissed you shall be.” He leaned over her.

  “Wait,” she whispered, her breath warm and promisingly moist on his face.

  He nuzzled the tender skin beneath her jaw. “Aye, love, what is it?”

  “First you must tell me something.”

  “Anything.” He drew back, only to see her eyes narrow ominously upon his.

  “I want to know,” she said in a cutting tone, “why the Combs slut has yet to leave this house.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Stunned, Thorne stared at his wife—this woman who had in an instant transformed from Eve to malevolent serpent. “Jesu,” he whispered, then swore aloud in a choked voice, “Jesu Christi!”

  He shoved himself away by the arms of the chair and strode to the window, where he threw the sashes wide and filled his lungs with soggy air. The baying of a hound and the chirping of late-summer insects filled the silence until he trusted himself to speak again. “You’ve a way of broad-siding a man, my lady. Hereafter, I shall beware your playful moods.”

  “My moods aside,” Gwynneth retorted, “I’ve a right to know why that woman is still here. And I’ve a right to hear it without your blasphemy.”

  Thorne turned to face her. “I’m not in the habit of explaining myself, my language, or my actions,” he said with a scowl, “but I’ll make a partial exception this time. I’ve reassigned Combs topstairs. Essentially banned her, if you will, to the servants’ quarters. Even her meals will be taken there.” His gaze turned withering. “She’ll not be available to cause embarrassment. For anyone.”

  Gwynneth shot up from her seat and squared her shoulders. “Just a few days ago, you accused me of undermining your authority over the servants. Now you’ve done the same. I dismissed the girl, and you revoked that dismissal with no warning.”

  “There is a phrase used in the practice of law, known as ‘pre-existent condition’—an apt enough term in Combs’ case,” Thorne said sharply. “Meaning to say, my lady, that Combs’ dilemma was brought to my attention before you joined this household, and that I’d arranged acceptable circumstances for all involved.”

  “Why keep her?” Gwynneth’s lip curled. “She’s of no use in her condition.”

  “I beg to differ. Our seamstress is losing her eyesight. She’s taken Combs on, and as all the sewing is done topstairs, neither you nor anyone else will be burdened with the growing evidence of her pregnancy.”

  “Thorne!”

  “What, I’ve shocked you again? No more than you’ve shocked me, my lady, by your lack of pity.”

  “Pity?” Gwynneth planted her hands on her hips and leaned forward. “Pity is what I feel when I see a child foraging for scraps of food in the back alleys of London. Pity is what I feel when I see Arthur coming from the forest with a slain buck over his shoulders. Pity is not,” she said with a toss of her head, “what I feel for a woman who raises her skirts at the first sign of attention from a man!”

  She stepped back quickly as Thorne advanced on her. “And is pity what you feel,” he said in a voice cold with fury, “when you consider the future of the innocent child she carries? Must that child be starving in the streets before your pity is ‘roused?”

  Gwynneth’s eyes filled with tears, whether for the child or herself, Thorne had no inkling. Nor did he care.

  “Do you,” he pressed, “foresee any quality of life for the child, with no father to claim it, if its mother is thrown out on the streets to make a living in whatever way she can?”

  “She’s already proven herself a whore…let her make her living as such!”

  No sooner were the words out than Gwynneth seemed to realize she’d gone too far. Scooting behind the nearest chair, she raised an arm to shield herself from what she saw in Thorne’s eyes, and in doing so was transformed again, this time from shrew to little girl.

  The effect disoriented Thorne; he was a gun on the verge of firing and suddenly emptied of powder. Never had he felt such anger, especially at a woman; its venom made his stomach roil. He backed up a few steps, then turned and strode away—from her, from the very air she breathed. In a haze of conflicting emotions, he heard the chamber door, and vaguely wondered whether it was he or or his wife who’d slammed it behind him.

  *

  Elaine Combs froze, book in hand, and held her breath as she listened for something to follow the crash overhead. Fairly certain it had come from Lady Neville’s chambers, she wondered if the new bride was ill. No business of mine, she reminded herself grimly. Marginally ailing or at death’s door, she will tolerate my presence no more.

  No sense in fretting, Elaine told herself. She had a roof over her head, a full belly and a bed in which to sleep—and all because of him. She’d known that immediately from the snide expression on Dame Carswell’s face when the woman came to interrupt her packing. Elaine’s heart had soared for one joyful moment before she realized that a situation topstairs would provide only an occasional glimpse of Wycliffe Hall’s master.

  She returned the book to its shelf and took another down, then paused again as she heard a heavy tread in the hall. It neared the library. Elaine’s heart began to race.

  The candle! She flew across the room to a chair near the dying fire, licked her fingers and snuffed the wick, then looked desperately for a place to hide. She had no time. She threw herself into the chair, gathered her garments up, and tucked her feet beneath her so that nothing of her would be visible from the hall. Heart thumping wildly, she clutched the book to her chest like a shield.

  The latch clicked. A hinge squeaked as one of the double doors opened, then closed again.

  She waited for a footfall. None came. Perhaps the intruder hadn’t entered. Perhaps he or she had gone on after all. Yet no steps sounded in the hall. She was about to peer around the high-backed chair when, somewhere in the darkness behind her, a man quietly cleared his throat.

  Elaine’s heart pounded in her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought off a hysterical giggle at the notion she was better hidden if unable to see.

  Footsteps commenced. Measured, unhurried, they approached and passed her chair. The stir of air wafted a familiar scent her way. Fear and excitement surged through her veins; still she kept her eyes shut tight. She heard the fire iron scrape the hearth, wood fall heavily onto the grate. Unless the intruder was blind, he would see her as soon as he turned around.

  The fire iron dropped into its stand. Silk whispered on silk, no doubt a sleeve brushing against a garment. And then—utter silence. She had been discovered. She held her breath, sure she would either faint or explode.

  “Are you sleeping?”

  She’d have known that low, rich tone any
where. She peeped through the slits of her eyes at the voice’s owner. Little more than a silhouette against the reviving flames, his face was all but concealed, whereas she knew hers was clearly visible.

  “I…I hope I didn’t frighten you, M’lord,” was all she could think to say, blinking rapidly as she opened her eyes.

  “‘Twould appear quite the reverse, Combs.”

  He moved away. Seizing the opportunity to rouse her paralyzed limbs and reclaim some dignity, Elaine untwisted herself and stood, then hastily smoothed her woolen cloak over her shift and wrapper.

  He’d gone to a corner of the room. He stood in the dimness with his back to her, perhaps having forgotten her presence already. She set the book silently on the table and made ready to leave.

  “Stay where you are.” He hadn’t so much as cocked his head.

  Lacing her fingers in front of her and waiting with outward calm, she heard glass clink from the corner. He obviously knew his way in the dark.

  He strolled nearer the fire, a bottle glinting dark-red in one hand and an empty glass in the other. He filled it before glancing her way.

  Painfully aware of the strange sight she presented—nightcap askew, hair tumbling to her waist, and a width of worn muslin sagging below the hem of her gray cloak—she nonetheless stood quietly poised while he tossed back the contents of his glass in one greedy swallow. He appeared still dressed for the evening meal, long past, his waitcoast however missing and his sleeves rolled to the elbows of his waterspotted shirt.

  She had no time to ponder that oddity, instead giving a violent start as he banged his glass down on the table and turned brooding eyes upon her.

  “I…I am sorry for trespassing, M’lord.”

  “Is that what you call it.”

  She hoped he didn’t hear her gulp. “It won’t happen again, M’lord.”

  His gaze swept her from head to toe. “So, what have you been up to? Why the nightclothes under your cloak?” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve been outdoors at this hour?”