“From this day hence, you’ll refuse to ride with her ladyship, no matter how much she coaxes you. Be gentle but firm. Send one of the lads with her.”
“Who started this ‘talk’?”
“It matters not. What matters is her ladyship’s reputation. Give an old man peace of mind, Toby, and keep your situation in the bargain. Lord Neville values you highly enough, but by God,” Arthur said with quiet vehemence, “he’d kill you in a trice for cuckolding him.”
Hobbs clenched his jaw. “Very well. For her sake, and hers alone, I shan’t ride with her again. But I won’t bar her from the stables. She likes to visit Abigail on the days she doesn’t ride. Should I abandon my work and barricade myself in my quarters until she leaves?”
“Don’t be insolent,” Arthur groused, rising slowly to stretch the tension from of his limbs. “A polite greeting will suffice. Then leave her to her own amusement and go on about your business. Understood?”
“Aye, Mister Pennington.” Hobbs muttered through his teeth. “Bloody well understood.”
*
As Thorne’s coach rolled out of the Townsend’s drive and into the lane, all but one person waved farewell. Looking deceptively angelic in blue eyelet and white lace, Bernie simply watched him go.
He blew a kiss out the window, prompting a halfhearted wave from Bernie, and saw Townsend put his arm around her shoulders.
Another year or so and she might have been his wife. The kind of wife he’d envisioned in Gwynneth.
Enough. He’d made his bed—with considerable help from his father and Radleigh—and now he would have to lie down in it. He chuckled cynically at the old adage, since he seemed destined to lie only in his bachelor bed.
But, who could tell? Townsend might be right. Perhaps Gwynneth had experienced a change of heart. By the time the coach reached London proper, Thorne felt cautiously optimistic, and settled in for the ten-hour journey home.
*
Hobbs sucked in a breath. Gwynneth was leaning against the doorframe. Behind her, wisps of fog drifted in the light of a waning moon.
He looked back at his ledger, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and resumed tallying the grooms’ hours and wages for the week. But all he could think of was how brown his arm looked against the pale parchment, and how it would look just that way against Gwynneth’s bare skin.
His heart pounded. He made a nasty blot on the page, then gave up, laying the quill aside and sprinkling sand on what he’d managed to finish.
“I shall stand here until you acknowledge me.”
Hobbs stared at his clasped hands, half hoping she’d turn and walk away. Hearing the dry whisper of silk approaching, he spoke without turning his head. “You should not be here.”
Her pace slowed, though her fragrance advanced, assaulting his senses. He closed his eyes, then opened them to stare at the wooden wall.
“I’ve come to fetch Abigail. Will you ride with me?”
He gritted his teeth at the caress in her voice. “I cannot.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m to refuse you, Milady.”
“By whose instruction?”
“That of my master’s steward.”
“Your master’s…Pennington?” She came closer. “Then I am being spied upon, I knew it. No doubt he’s following orders. Ride with me.”
“I cannot. Ride if you must, but at your own risk. I’ve no one to send, the grooms have all gone home.” Hobbs swallowed hard. “I answer to both Pennington and your husband, Milady, and I’ve no choice but to follow orders or risk losing my situation.”
“This is outrageous!” She blinked back tears. “I am Lady Neville, Baroness Neville of Wycliffe!”
“You are,” he agreed, rising, unable to bear the distress in her voice. She was so close her skirts brushed his breeches. Hobbs made fists at his sides, resisting the urge to caress her cheek, stroke her hair.
“Then I say that the stable master shall accompany me when I ride!” A sob choked her voice. “All my life I’ve been ruled by men! First my father, then the priest…and now that I am a baroness and mistress of the manor, what do I find? Only that I’m bound as ever by a man’s rules and expectations—a man who doesn’t love me, who only wants to possess me.” Her green eyes blazed through her tears. “Well I am no longer a child, and I shan’t be treated as one! Did Pennington also tell you to put me out of the stables?”
“No, Milady.” Hobbs struggled to keep his voice calm, his heart racing at her revelation that Neville didn’t love her. “Only that you’re to ride with one of the grooms.”
Gwynneth stared into his troubled eyes, and shook her head. “You’re no happier about this than I, are you? Speak truth.”
Emotion tightened his throat. “My happiness is of no consequence, Milady. You are your husband’s chattel.”
Bowing her head, Gwynneth began to sob.
Before Hobbs knew what he was doing, his arms were around her. She did not balk. Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he rocked her gently in his embrace while she wept, until the sound of something outdoors permeated his consciousness.
“What is it?” Gwynneth murmured, stiffening in his embrace as raised his head to listen.
“Wait here. Hide in that empty stall.” Furious at the interruption, he strode to the doorway.
A coach was turning in from the Northampton road. Hobbs swore under his breath.
“Who is it?” Gwynneth hissed.
“Your husband.”
“What?” She hurried out of the stall as Hobbs approached, her eyes wide. “But he isn’t to return for two days!”
Hobbs twisted his mouth in irony. “Shall we march outside and tell him so?” He drew her cloak up over her shoulders, then jerked a kerchief from his pocket and blotted her face with it. “Pinch your cheeks.”
“Pardon?”
“Pinch your cheeks. ‘Tis a trick of my sister’s when she’s too pale.”
Gwynneth eyed him dubiously. “Your sister.”
“Yes,” he said with a fleeting smile, then gave Gwynneth’s face a quick inspection. “Now go. Use the west entrance and take the service stairs. You had better fly, he has a long stride. Go!”
*
“Quick, Byrnes, fetch me another frock, I don’t care which. The master has arrived, and will likely be hungry.” For food, pray God, and naught else, Gwynneth added silently.
“You answer it,” she said as a knock sounded at the door. While the maid hurried to obey, Gwynneth tried to look casual in a chair near the fire, but craned her neck at the sudden clatter from the sitting room.
In came her husband, pushing a teakwood serving-cart bearing a cold supper and a dusty bottle of wine. “Good evening, my lady. I’m told you’ve had naught to eat since midday, so perhaps you’ll share a small repast with me.”
“Yes, of course!” Her tone was too bright; she could see it in his sharp glance, and her tension heightened. But while eating the Cornish hen, soda bread, Camembert, and poached pears in sweet cream and nutmeg, Thorne said little, and gradually Gwynneth relaxed. “You’ve returned early. Was the house party tiresome?”
“Not particularly. You were missed, by the by, and inquired after with much concern. You might want to remember that your Aunt Evelyn has been very ill.”
Gwynneth’s face grew warm.
“So, how have you occupied yourself?” Thorne asked pleasantly.
Expecting the question, Gwynneth had rehearsed a reply. “Needlepoint. Tending my roses, perhaps overmuch.” She ruefully showed him her scratched hands. “I’ve helped in the kitchen, too, drying herbs and preserving apple butter.” She ate a bit of pear before adding casually, “I’ve ridden, too, almost every day.”
“Not alone, I hope?”
“Oh, no, I was quite safe.”
Thorne lifted an eyebrow. “Hobbs was daily able to spare a groom?”
Pulse racing, Gwynneth managed an airy sniff. “Hobbs doesn’t trust any of those simpletons. He thinks t
oo much of you to leave your wife’s safety to a mere boy.”
Thorne eyed her intently. “Hobbs thinks very little of me, my lady, so you may as well save your breath on that score.”
Speechless, she felt her cheeks burning.
Thorne downed the last of his wine, then leaned back in his chair, his eyes barely visible through slit lids. “So, again you’ve defied convention—and my wishes—by bullying my stable master into acting as your personal escort.”
“No bullying was necessary!” Gwynneth cried, then regretted her outburst as Thorne gave her a crooked smile.
“No,” he said quietly. “I thought not.”
*
Gwynneth had long gone to bed when Thorne entered the east hall. Passing the library, he fixed frowning eyes on the darkness beneath the doors.
Despite the late hour, he found the housekeeper in her office. “Why is there no fire in the library?” he demanded.
First curtseying, Dame Carswell clasped her hands behind her rigid back. “Lady Neville’s orders, M’lord.”
“What the deuce?” Thorne’s frown turned to a scowl. “Explain.”
“Her ladyship discovered Combs there late one evening. She forbade her any further use of the room, and made it quite clear to me that no fire is to burn there at such an hour.”
“Did she.” Fury snaked through Thorne’s veins and seeped into his low voice. “Is that why you are up and about so late? Guarding my library against intruders?”
Dame Carswell swallowed hard. “Her ladyship threatened me with dismissal, M’lord, should it happen again-”
“Do my orders not supersede hers? Is your dismissal not up to me?”
The housekeeper lifted her chin defensively. “Begging your pardon, M’lord, but ‘tis customary for the lady of the house to handle such matters. She was quite lenient by most standards. Combs had no business trespassing or being about at that hour.”
Something about Thorne’s face must have betrayed his helpless anger—or perhaps he only imagined the tiny gleam in the housekeeper’s eye, the slight curl in her lip.
“Will that be all, M’lord?”
“No, Carswell, there is one thing more.”
“Yes, M’lord?”
“Get to bed.”
*
It was nearly noon Friday before estate business was out of the way and Gwynneth’s whereabouts could be confirmed. With Jennings’ assurance she was gone to the draper’s in Northampton, an immediate summons was sent topstairs.
One look at Elaine Combs, as she entered his study, told Thorne that she would gloss over the incident. Impatience prevented the usual polite greeting, but did nothing to slow his quickening pulse.
“Close the door and take a seat.” As she did so without looking at him, Thorne stole a glance to see her skirts still hiding her growing belly.
Serene gray eyes rose to meet quizzical blue. “Welcome home, M’lord.”
“Thank you,” he said, and the ice in his marrow began to thaw for the first time in days. “I shan’t keep you long away from your duties, but I will have an account of the incident in the library.”
He saw it again—the guarded look in her eyes, the subtle straightening of her already erect back.
“Do not even consider telling me less than the whole story,” he warned her. “Should I later hear of something you’ve omitted, you’ll find yourself back in this room in a trice. You’ll also find my mood far less gracious.”
She nodded.
He went to stand at the window and turned his back to her, hoping she’d speak more frankly if spared his penetrating scrutiny.
In a voice so low that he sometimes had to cock an ear or ask her to repeat something, Combs recounted the event. Two long pauses interrupted her, one before she told him what Gwynneth had said to her and the other just before telling how she’d fainted dead away at Gwynneth’s feet.
Thorne felt his wrath building beyond reason. Reminding himself he wanted Combs to suffer no repercussions, he took deep, quiet breaths. By the time she’d finished and he turned to look at her, the heat had almost left his face.
“No real harm was done, then, to you or the child?” His gaze pierced the maid through; no amount of deep breathing could help that. Oddly enough, it never seemed to rattle her as it did other people.
“Only to my foolish pride, M’lord.”
“I suppose reinstating your library privileges is of no use. The experience is spoiled for you…you’d never come again.”
She said nothing, but he saw confirmation in her eyes.
“Return to your duties, then. I thank you for your candor.” He made his tone brusque, all business. “Consider the matter closed.”
“Aye, M’lord.” Lowering her eyes, she curtseyed and took her leave—for once without being delayed.
TWENTY-THREE
“How do you think it looks to my servants when you come barging into my house in your stableman’s rags?”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse how it looks to that old hag you call a maid. As for Ashby and your cook, I can charm the garters right off them, rags or riches. And it’s stable master now.”
Caroline plopped into a velvet chair, her skirts flouncing.
“Might I sit as well?” Hobbs said with a mocking air.
“No, you may not! Say what you’ve come for. More money to keep your tongue in your head?”
“Not nearly that simple, dear sister.” He smiled.
“What, then?”
“I’ve come to strike a bargain.” Sitting down to spite her, he saw her eyes snap with anger. “When might you visit Wycliffe Hall again?” he said quickly.
She looked taken aback. “I…I haven’t been invited.”
“And why should that stop you?”
Her eyes fell. She fussed with the lace tiers on her sleeve. “His lordship and I,” she said with obvious reluctance, “had words.”
“All the more reason to visit. To apologize.”
“Apologize?” She looked up at him grimly. “On a cold day in Hades, perhaps. ‘Tis I who deserves the apology.”
“Lady Neville is your friend. Mightn’t she issue an invitation despite the rift?”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps. Why this sudden interest in my itinerary?”
“Lady Neville needs a friend just now.” Hobbs put on a somber face. “Her marriage is not a happy one.”
“How could you know that?”
“She told me so.”
Caroline’s bark of laughter ended in a sneer. “She confided in you? That prissy little saint? Tell the truth, Toby.”
“Watch how you speak of her, Caroline. She’s been kind to you, she deserves better than your peculiar brand of friendship. Sadly, I fear you’re the only friend she has.”
“My, my, such devotion. Coveting the master’s wife, are we?” Caroline’s taunting smile turned to a throaty laugh. “My dear boy, Gwynneth herself can tell you—and probably will—that there is a commandment against such ‘wickedness’!”
“You’re treading quicksand, Caroline,” he warned, his face flushing.
Her jaw dropped. “Oh my God…I don’t believe it…you’re in love with the girl! Oh, this is too bloody rich for words!” Scathing laughter doubled her over.
Hobbs leapt from his chair to close the doors, then turned on his sister. “Shut up,” he snarled, grasping her chin in one hand and jerking her face up to his, “before I break your precious neck!”
Caroline glared at him.
“I’ll convince her to invite you,” he said curtly. “Once there, I want you to do and say everything within your power to divide her and Neville—artfully, mind you.” He let go her chin with a contemptuous little shove. “You can do it, artifice is one of your greatest talents.”
Caroline furiously wiped her chin with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I don’t see how.”
“Don’t play the ingenue with me. I can tell Neville fancies you. With your powers” —he leered at her bosom be
fore meeting her eyes again— “of feminine persuasion, you’ll have him off Lady Neville’s trail in no time. There are worse things,” he reminded her with a cunning look, “than being a nobleman’s mistress. Besides, landed gentry often marry daughters of rich merchants nowadays.” He winked slyly.
“And how would this little sabotage serve you?” Caroline snapped.
“That is more than you need know. Suffice it to say that in return for your efforts, be they sincere and successful, I shall refrain from any future extortion of your considerable funds and will continue to keep your humble origins—and mine—to myself.”
“Listen to you! Such eloquence, now that you aspire to seduce your master’s wife! One would think you were educated with gentry…” Her words trailed off.
“That I am gentry.” Hobbs smiled at her sulky expression. “You’ll forgive my efforts then, sweet sister, to at least speak as though I was tutored in my father’s house. You see, we’ve each our aspirations, haven’t we?…though mine aren’t entirely counterfeit.”
Glowering at him, she replied crossly, “Very well. Should I receive an invitation to visit Wycliffe Hall, I’ll accept.” She narrowed her eyes. “Then let the games begin.”
Hobbs smile took a malicious twist. “And may the best man win.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Caroline’s arriving Wednesday for a visit,” Gwynneth announced over supper Friday evening.
Thorne ignored the trip in his heartbeat. “I’m surprised she could make the journey on such short notice.”
“She seemed glad at the prospect,” Gwynneth said, adding peevishly, “and though you had to suffer her presence an additional three days, I have not seen her since the wedding.”
“You should have gone to the Townsends’ house party,” Thorne said evenly. “The two of you could have visited to your heart’s content.”
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