The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  But what difference did it make who it was?

  Elaine knew full well what difference it made—and her fluttering heart proved it.

  *

  Wide awake in her curtained bed, Gwynneth lay listening for any sound that might announce Thorne’s entrance.

  Minutes passed, stretching into a half-hour. Only nature’s noise intruded, and against those Gwynneth closed the sashes. Back in bed, her eyes shut at last, she prayed for the night to pass in peace. When next she opened them, dawn had arrived—time to say her Rosary.

  NINETEEN

  “Shall we go?” Gwynneth asked, as Thorne handed back the embossed invitation.

  He smiled at the spark in her eyes. Was she thinking, as he was, that a weeklong house party in the Townsend household might work some magic to breach the impasse they’d reached? “Will you send the Townsends our acceptance?”

  “I’ll do it this minute.” And she was out the door, almost running to her day room.

  For the next few days, Thorne saw little of Gwynneth as she stayed in her chambers with Byrnes, choosing and packing a wardrobe for the journey to London. He spent his time making rounds to the manor farms and orchards and working in his study. On free afternoons, he hunted or fished, sometimes with Arthur. In the evenings, he walked outdoors or practiced billiards—and for increasingly longer periods of time, read in the library, where he found Combs’ quiet presence both agitating and soothing.

  *

  With departure arranged for the following Friday morning, Thorne met Arthur at Duncan’s Thursday evening for a pint of ale. “What is it?” he asked, seeing the steward’s long face.

  “A rumor.” Arthur’s face turned ruddy. “Though I don’t think it’s gone beyond the stables.”

  “Out with it, then.”

  Arthur took a deep breath and began. “‘Tis said you and Lady Neville have yet…to share a bed.” He flushed crimson but kept his gaze steady. “True or not, this drivel must stop before it reaches the village. I spoke to Hobbs this morning, warned him to keep his grooms’ tongues in their heads and to guard his own.”

  Thorne nodded grimly. “You’ll excuse me, then. I’ve a chambermaid to send packing with little more than a hard lesson on gossip. All the better for her next employer.”

  *

  Drifting off to sleep, Gwynneth jolted awake.

  Byrnes had opened her draperies and sashes earlier, hoping a breeze might stir the muggy chamber air. For some reason the night sounds seemed suddenly menacing. Wide-eyed, Gwynneth wondered if someone had just walked on her grave.

  Talking herself out of the odd sensation, she turned over—and to her horror made out a dark shape on her bed not more than a foot away.

  A scream tore loose from her throat, then died as a hand clapped gently but firmly over her mouth.

  “Be still.”

  The low voice sent chills down her spine. The shape rose slightly, silhouetting a head and broad shoulders. Gwynneth caught a whiff of sandalwood; her heart went from racing to thudding. Time to pay the piper.

  The hand lifted from her mouth.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Thorne’s nearly invisible features made it difficult to gauge his mood or his intentions. “I thought you to be asleep.”

  “Why-” Gwynneth began.

  “I’ve come to share the marriage bed,” he replied, answering the question she couldn’t ask.

  “I…I see.” But she didn’t see, nor did she want to see. She lay on her side, facing him, her heart pounding now because without seeing or touching him, she knew he was naked.

  “Goodnight,” he murmured. Gwynneth jumped as if shot.

  Bewildered, she lay still at least a half-hour before turning over. In another hour or so, she drifted off to sleep, reassured for the moment by the deep, regular breathing from the other side of her bed.

  *

  Hearing the lark’s song, Thorne opened his eyes to what appeared a wide ribbon of spun-gold on the pillow. He lowered his gaze. The eastern light stealing through the open casements outlined the dips and swells of his wife’s body and rendered her gauzy shift all but invisible. His manhood, already at half-mast upon awakening, took a startling leap.

  Moving his head closer to hers on the pillow, he traced a fingertip around the rim of her ear before gently suckling its velvety lobe.

  Gwynneth arched her back, and as Thorne slid his hand slowly but surely around her and over one breast, her gasp ended any pretense of slumber. Her heart raced beneath his hand, her nipple blooming into his palm like a flower under the sun’s warmth.

  Testing the supple heaviness of that firm, round globe with a slow, kneading motion, Thorne heard Gwynneth’s breathing quicken. The gentle roll of her stiffened peak between his finger and thumb produced an all-out moan.

  Gritting his teeth, he arched his throbbing erection away from her, wanting nothing more than to nestle it up against the cleft in her bottom-cheeks. He found some relief in rolling onto his stomach and pressing himself into the down-filled mattress. Easing his wife’s shoulder toward him, he looked at her face, and smiled to see how tightly she had shut her eyes.

  He slipped the shift off her shoulder and bared a breast, then proceeded to lave the milky-white mound and its flushed aureole with his tongue. He avoided the pebble-hard peak at the center until Gwynneth arched her back in wanton invitation.

  He gladly obliged.

  She cried out softly as Thorne began suckling, her body soon undulating in the ancient, instinctive rhythm of coupling. Her hands came to life, burrowing into his black locks and pressing him harder to her breast.

  A fierce joy washed over him, drowning his misgivings. His wife did want his touch, the touch that only he could give her. Through the thin layer of her shift, he caressed her bottom. Her increased gyration encouraged him to ease her over onto her back. He slid the hem of her shift up to her thighs.

  Gwynneth gasped, her eyes flying open.

  Thorne knew what she saw—the passion and purpose burning in his eyes, the sensuality lifting his smile at one corner. He concealed none of it now that she’d responded to him with the zeal of a Pagan priestess enrapt in Spring rites.

  “Let me make love to you, Gwynneth,” he murmured, the words thick with desire.

  She closed her eyes again, this time in surrender, breathing fast and hard as he stroked her quivering thighs. Thorne groaned his appreciation as she opened them, and grazed the silky curls there with his fingertips. The slick dew he encountered sent a wave of triumphant lust surging through his blood and into through his loins. His wife, his lady, was ready for him. With gentle but eager fingers, he parted her damp curls and stroked the velvety lips at her slit.

  Gwynneth let go a moan so earthy that Thorne could hardly believe it came from her. He moaned in turn, descending on her as she lifted her head and parting her lips with gratifying ease. He delved deep into the honeypot of her mouth, his fingers smoothing her juices around her swelling feminine folds, his thumb stroking the jutting little bud there with a rhythm that soon had her whimpering into his mouth.

  In return, Gwynneth suckled his tongue with a fervor that nearly unmanned him. God only knew what that sweet mouth might do to other parts of his body! She gripped his upper arms and then buried her hands in his hair again, all the while panting for air, yet unwilling to give up his kiss.

  But as her mouth began to relax under his, Thorne knew her mind was turning inward, focusing on the building inferno at her core. Maintaining his seductive rhythm against her weeping flesh, he shifted his mouth to a nipple and suckled with gentle greed. Watching her fetching face contort, he knew that she was deaf to her own sharp cries, aware only of the explosion of heat between her thighs. As Gwynneth’s body bathed his fingers in her hot lava, it was all he could do not to move down between her satin limbs and lap the warm flow into his mouth.

  But he knew he must enter her now, while she was in the throes of climax and slick with her own juices, to minimize her
pain.

  He slipped a finger inside her. Feeling the incredible pull and pulse of hot, virginal walls, he nearly lost control. He grasped his rampant rigidity firmly beneath its head until the danger passed. Slowly, steadily, and with the aid of Gwynneth’s profuse nectar, he entered her deliciously tight passage, pausing only when he reached the thin barrier of her maidenhead. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to breach that barrier and bury his fleshy sword to the hilt in his wife’s slippery, simmering sheath.

  But his pause made Gwynneth, initially lost in the shattering aftermath of her first climax, aware of the alien thickness penetrating her body. Suddenly she was pushing Thorne’s chest and pounding his shoulders, her eyes wide with panic.

  Quickly he retracted from the euphoric promise of her taut, wet grip, and held himself immobile above her, gazing tenderly at her despite his driving need. “Don’t be afraid, sweeting,” he said huskily. “‘Twill pain only for a moment, then never again. Henceforward you’ll feeling only pleasure in our coupling, I promise…pleasure beyond reckoning.”

  Her alarmed expression told him she’d heard nothing after the word “pain.” He’d no way of knowing the word “pleasure” would alarm her more.

  “No…no, I will not!” Heaving her hands against his chest, she pushed him aside, then untangled herself and her shift from the sheets, kicking Thorne in the process, and catapulted herself from the bed. “Th-this is wrong!” she sputtered. “I won’t let you do this to me!”

  “Do what?” he countered, stung and bewildered. “What in God’s name have I done but drive you to the heights of pleasure?”

  A desperate, almost hunted look entered her eyes. She flung her wrapper around her shoulders and clutched the edges tightly together. “Aye…and now you propose to tear me apart with that…that…weapon you carry between your legs!”

  “No, my lady…God, no.” Thorne rolled off the bed, slung on his dressing gown and wrapped it around him. “Listen to me,” he said, reaching for her.

  She jumped away. “Don’t! Do not touch me!”

  Thorne stopped short, dismayed.

  “You should go now,” Gwynneth whispered, her expression filled with anguish. “Please go!”

  “No, my lady. We cannot leave it like this.” Unspent passion and strained patience made his voice hoarse. “Tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

  “Everything!” she cried. “You cannot handle a woman so, ‘tis a sin!”

  Thorne dared a step forward; Gwynneth stepped back. “Who told you that?” he demanded in quiet fury.

  “I simply know it, I needn’t be told.” Gwynneth wrung her hands. “My lord, do you not understand? I should burn in hell for such wicked pleasure!”

  “Oh, my lady.” Thorne shook his head, desperation rising. “Someone has trifled with your mind, misled you. There is nothing wrong or sinful about what we have done-”

  Gwynneth shrieked, covering her face with her hands.

  “What we have done,” Thorne said, conviction strengthening his voice, “is sanctified, my lady—by the very Sacrament of Marriage.”

  “It cannot be!” She dragged her hands down her face and gazed at him with haunted eyes. “Oh dear God, you surely cannot expect this of me!” she wailed, and turned her back to Thorne.

  She was actually addressing the Deity, he realized. In two strides he had her by the arm and turned her about. “Someone has told you ‘tis wrong—who? Tell me who it was.”

  “Let go of me!” she screeched. “Oh, I knew I should have taken the vows! A pox on my father! I shall hate you, Thorne Neville, hate you always if you force me to do your will!”

  Thorne released her like a shot and stepped back, feeling the blood drain from his face. “I have never forced a woman, nor shall I now. And as for ‘the vows’, my lady—you took the vows of marriage. You promised yourself to me before of God and all present. You heard the words of the Gospel. ‘They two shall be in one flesh.’ How long am I to wait to claim my marital rights, Lady Neville? Even your priest will tell you ‘tis your duty to beget an heir!”

  Thorne advanced, but stopped short of touching her. “Counfound it all, Gwynneth, you enjoyed my making love to you, and you lie if you deny it!”

  “Do not,” she shrilled, backing away, “make me feel any more despicable than I already feel…aye, I was weak, as weak as Eve. I did feel pleasure at your hands, and it was wicked of me!” Her eyes took on a fanatic gleam. “‘Tis one thing to submit to a man to beget an heir, ‘tis quite another to take pleasure from such depravity! And you, Thorne Neville, are a practiced Epicurean, else you would not be so adept at coaxing forth the demon of lust in my body—one I hardly knew was there ‘til your skill exposed it!” She swiped at the tears spilling from her eyes. “I shall ask forgiveness in confession, and double my penance, for ‘tis my belief that God intended me for a higher purpose than groveling and thrashing about like a bitch in heat!”

  Thorne stared at her in stunned silence, pain and despair vying with impotent anger. He found his voice. “We’re to depart for London in less than two hours, my lady. However, I imagine your ‘higher purpose’ will not allow you to be trapped in a coach with a libertine such as myself for a day’s journey. You may go alone, then, and relay my regrets.”

  “You go! They are your friends!”

  Belting his dressing gown, Thorne gave her a curt nod. “Very well, I shall. I leave you to your Rosary, my lady. Good day.”

  *

  Thorne slipped into his wife’s deserted chambers and crossed to the unmade bed, where he took a small bone-handled dagger from his waistcoat pocket. First pricking a finger with quick precision, he bled several drops onto the bottom sheet, wiped his finger clean, and flipped the counterpane over the stain.

  Below stairs, he told the housekeeper to dismiss the chambermaid. “Tomorrow,” he cautioned. “Not a word to the wench until then.” Time enough to spread word that the master and mistress have shared a bed, he thought with savage bitterness.

  He bade farewell only to Jennings, helped the coachman with his bags, and was soon on his way down the Northampton road. He was determined not to look back, certain he’d find no one watching at any rate. But as the coach rounded the last bend, just before the forest obstructed his view, he could no longer resist.

  She was there. Alone at a third-floor window, her mobcap and apron bright white in the sunshine, she stood watching the coach, one hand on her growing belly.

  TWENTY

  “What, he’s business in London again?”

  Hidden behind the half-open larder door, Elaine Combs stopped chewing a mouthful of cheese and perked up her ears.

  “Aye, so I hear,” Hillary answered Susan. “Sudden-like. Her ladyship stayed behind. Doesn’t want to attend the house party alone.”

  “She’s a timid one, all right.”

  “Not that timid,” Hillary countered, a sly note entering her voice.

  Susan gasped. “Do ye mean to say…?”

  “Aye!”

  Elaine stood stock-still, the empty cheese-crock forgotten in her hand.

  “The chambermaid says the master’s bed was untouched,” Hillary went on in a lower voice, “and the mistress’ mussed quite more than usual—with color on the sheets!”

  Susan’s reply was lost, drowned out by the crash of crockery on the larder floor.

  *

  Arriving at the Townsend estate near Chigwell outside London, the welcome Thorne received from Richard Townsend and his parents, Sir Dennis and Lady Townsend, nearly restored his good spirits. Gwynneth’s Aunt Evelyn was ill and needed her, he lied with all the regret he could muster. Richard Townsend escorted him to his appointed guestroom.

  “You can rest before tea, nothing doing ‘til then at any rate,” Townsend assured him. “Only half the guests have arrived. Better to take cover at any rate, my little sister has been to and fro on the lookout for you all morning. I think she was just as anxious for a look at her competition. Now she’ll have you all to herself, Go
d help you.”

  Thorne laughed. It felt wonderful to laugh; how long had it been? The thought of tall, reedy, sixteen-year-old Bernice, with her violet-blue eyes and fiery curls and the spattering of freckles across her impertinent nose, flying about the house as she waited for him to appear, was enough to rid him of any bad humor. “Bernie” had insisted since the age of twelve that she would marry him.

  Escorted to a room he’d never seen, Thorne inwardly winced at the overtly feminine boudoir apparently chosen with his new bride in mind, though the view from the windows drew him as always. Eyeing the wide, silver ribbon of river wending through the valley, he heard a knock at the door.

  “Sorry to disturb,” Townsend said when Thorne opened the door, “but tea’s delayed an hour to accommodate late arrivals. Can you spare a moment?” At Thorne’s nod, he ducked in with a quick backward glance. “Bernie,” he said with a comical grimace.

  Smiling, Thorne closed the door, and the two men sat down.

  “Neville, old chap, you look dreadful.”

  “Tact was never your strong suit.”

  “Sorry. You don’t look well. What’s the matter? Is it Lady Neville? Has she had another, ah, spell?”

  Thorne knew he’d paused too long when he saw the purposeful gleam in Townsend’s eyes; now there was no escape.

  “Shall I pour a dram?” Townsend rose without waiting for a reply and went to the sideboard.

  Thorne took the bottle he handed over and poured for them both. “Gwynneth is well. I must plead exhaustion for my pallor, what with the harvest and a new wife as well.”

  Townsend smiled. “Ah, so your bride is at fault. We should all be so fortunate to suffer such exhaustion.”

  Both men jumped at a loud rapping on the door.

  “Richard? I know you’re in there! Mama says to come at once, she needs you to move the settee in the Grindall’s room. Come, now!”

  Footsteps sped from the door and faded away.

  Townsend stood up and drained his glass, then made a mocking bow in the direction of the door. “I’m off,” he said wryly, “at little Miss Hooligan’s command.” He looked heartened by Thorne’s smile. “‘Til tea, then.”