The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  The look on Gwynneth’s face was priceless. “You never said she was a guest!”

  He shrugged. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “You knew she was invited?”

  “No. It seems Townsend met up with her days beforehand and invited her. By social standards she should have refused, but Caroline doesn’t seem particularly bound by convention.”

  Gwynneth bristled. “You are so quick to criticize her.”

  “‘Twas simply an observation, my lady.”

  “Did you pass some time with her?”

  Eyes on his food, Thorne shook his head. “No,” he lied. “Though I did manage to be civil.” Another lie. Inwardly he winced at the thought of his last exchange with Caroline.

  Her visit could only be trouble.

  And Thorne knew he had asked for it.

  *

  Sunday morning dawned rainy and cold. As Parson Carey closed the worship service, Elaine sighed to think of the walk back to the manor. The ruts had been filled before the wedding, but the road had been gouged again during harvest and was pocked with puddles. There would be much dried mud to brush from her skirts and wash from her stockings, and even those small tasks seemed tiresome these days.

  She closed her Anglican prayer book and turned to exit the front pew—then froze.

  At the rear of the church, his impenetrable gaze fixed straight ahead, sat Lord Neville.

  Elaine walked down the central nave, looking down as she passed him, but paused as he murmured her name.

  “Wait in the vestibule,” he said.

  The other servants were nearly out the door, none of them hanging back for Elaine. She stepped behind a wooden column while Parson Carey exchanged a few words with their employer. As Carey exited through the vestry, she heard her master’s familiar tread approach the rear of the church.

  “Good morning,” he said as their eyes met in the shadows.

  “Good morning, M’lord.” She curtsied, then sat on the bench he indicated just inside the door.He sat down at a discreet distance.Heart racing, she managed to endure his close scrutiny with outward calm.

  “How fare you?”

  “Well, M’lord, thank you.”

  He looked relieved. “Markham treats you kindly, then?”

  “Yes, very kindly. She is a patient teacher and a pleasant companion.”

  “Your only companion, it seems,” he said wryly.

  Looking down, she nodded.

  “Eyes up, Combs.”

  Surprised, she met his stern gaze.

  “Keep your head up and your eyes to the fore,” he said more gently. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. You need be humble before none but your Maker, and show due respect only to those you serve. The rest of the world can go to the devil. Is that clear, Combs?”

  She could only nod, her throat tight and her eyes full of tears.

  “Here,” he said hastily, fumbling in his coat pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. “I didn’t mean to distress you.”

  To Elaine’s astonishment, he blotted her tears himself, with startling tenderness. The linen smelled of sandalwood. She breathed deeply as if to calm herself, while inhaling his fragrance. “You mistake my tears, M’lord,” she assured him as he refolded the handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket. “I am merely grateful, as always, for your kindness and concern.”

  “Your gratitude is unnecessary. Is all well with the babe?”

  Elaine nodded, a radiant warmth that was more than a blush infusing her cheeks as she carefully averted her eyes. “Aye, M’lord, as best I can tell.”

  “Let’s be certain. We’ll have Hodges out to examine you.” He held up a hand as she started to protest. “‘Tis useless to argue, Combs. I am your master and I will have my way.”

  Detecting a mischievous glint in his eye, she smiled. “Very well, M’lord.”

  He stood up and extended a hand. “Come then. My coach awaits. I’m taking you home.”

  Elaine knew that Thorne Neville was not in the habit of taking a coach to the manor church; rain or shine, he would come walking or on horseback, if he came at all. Speechless, she took the hand he offered.

  As his warm fingers enclosed her own, something leapt within her.

  “What is it?” he said quickly at her little gasp.

  “I—I think the babe just moved.” Wide-eyed, she saw something akin to pain cross Lord Neville’s face before the heat of embarrassment flushed her own.

  “Let’s get you into the coach,” he said shortly, and helped her up off the bench.

  Once ushered into the shining black conveyance, whose interior already felt warm and toasty from the brazier of glowing coals on the floor, Elaine settled into the plush velvet seat with a sigh of pleasure. Lord Neville climbed in after her, and in the relatively small enclosure, she realized for the first time what a presence he commanded by his very height and breadth.

  “This is no day,” he said as the coach jerked into motion, “for you to be traipsing through the muck and mire.” He smiled. “Hence I shall convey you in style to the west entrance, where you can slip up the service stairs unobserved.” He sobered. “However, this will be the last Sunday you venture to matins.”

  “Why?” Elaine cried, forgetting protocol in her dismay.

  He studied her face. “Does it mean so much to you?”

  Considering it, she sighed. “Not so much in a religious sense, as I believe worship can be expressed in hundreds of little ways throughout the day, on the Sabbath or any other. ‘Tis just…would I sound utterly mad if I said I’d miss the social aspect? Though no one has much to do with me these days, I somehow feel more a part of the human race when I join them in church.”

  He nodded, still studying her face, then glanced out the window. “We’re nearing the Hall, so I must finish my say. Though it gives me no pleasure after what you’ve just told me, I ask that you confine yourself to the house ‘til after the babe is born. This road is not safe for a woman in your condition, especially with winter approaching. And though I personally wouldn’t object,” he said with a wry grimace, “others might see it as nothing less than scandalous for you to be driven to and fro in my coach.” He smiled as Elaine smothered a laugh. “‘Tis only a matter of time before your confinement at any rate, as Doctor Hodges will no doubt declare.”

  She nodded, blushing along with him.

  “You’ll abide by my wishes, then?” If he was trying to sound brusque, he failed miserably.

  “M’lord,” she said impulsively, “you are without a doubt the most compassionate master God ever gave breath, just as I knew you would be-” She broke off with an audible swallow, her heart racing; she’d said far more than was wise. “Thank you, M’lord, I shall gladly do as you wish.”

  Seeing him gaze at her hands, she stopped clasping and unclasping them in her lap.

  “You’ve aroused my curiosity, Combs. How could you have known anything of my temperament before you came to work here?”

  “Your reputation is well known, M’lord,” she replied hastily. She looked out the window, unable to endure his thoughtful perusal any longer, and breathed a silent sigh of relief as they turned into the drive of the Hall’s west wing.

  “Quickly,” Lord Neville said, helping her down from the coach. With a slap on the roof, he signaled the driver to be off, then opened the heavy door to the Hall. Inside and away from prying eyes, he drew Elaine into the alcove of the service stairs.

  “As you’ll have no society but Markham’s during your confinement,” he said in a low voice, “I’m offering you the use of the library again. Hear me out before you refuse. You know I often sit there late into the evening, and I’d welcome…that is to say, I’ve never minded your company. You could read to your heart’s content without any fear of discovery. Now that I’m home again, no one intrudes there of an evening.”

  Elaine’s pulse quickened as she absorbed the full import of his words. That she, an unwed servant, expecting a child, should be invited to in
habit the master’s favorite retreat, in his company and under his protection—this was madness! No, she amended: this was Thorneton Neville. This was her lord and master, and if she had only ever thought she loved him, she knew it now beyond a doubt.

  She willed away tears. “I should be glad to, M’lord…more than glad, I should be in your debt.” She nearly took his hand in her fervor; catching herself, she dropped into a prolonged curtsey.

  She stifled a gasp as his hand touched her face—a touch so light and so brief it shouldn’t have burned her as it did, and she knew she would feel that warmth on her cheek for hours.

  “You are more than welcome. But I must ask you to forego another convention,” he said, supporting one of her elbows as she stood.

  “Yes, M’lord?” She sounded breathless—too breathless from mere physical strain.

  “Henceforth,” he said firmly, “do not curtsey to me. Nod if you must, but do not bend your knee. You risk a fall.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. If he showed her any further kindness, she would weep. Or worse yet, kiss him. “As you wish, M’lord,” she murmured, and slipped through the service stair door before he could say another word.

  *

  Atop Raven’s back, on high ground in one of his orchards Wednesday morning, Thorne spotted the Sutherland coach on the Northhampton Road.

  With a grim expression, he plucked a Macintosh from a branch overhead and tossed it into his saddlebag, where it joined a loaf of oat bread and a flask of Arthur’s homemade blackberry wine. After lunch he would oversee the cider pressing for Arthur, who’d been called on family business to Kettering. But first he would borrow a pole from Carmody, who farmed the apple orchard, and slip away for some fishing when the pickers stopped for their midday meal.

  He had just dropped his line on the north fork, where cold underground springs fed into the beck, when he realized he had company a few yards down the bank. The boy eyed him curiously but said nothing, and eventually Thorne all but forgot he was there. A quarter of an hour passed before Thorne hauled in his first catch. He was separating hook and trout when a pair of bare feet appeared on the mossy ground beside him.

  “Not very big, is it, sir.”

  “No,” Thorne agreed, squinting up at the boy, who appeared all of twelve. “Who might you be?”

  “Clayton Carmody, sir. And ye’re Lord Neville hisself,” the boy announced solemnly. “I seen ye at ye’re wedding.”

  Thorne chuckled. “Then I shan’t bother introducing myself. Join me, Clayton, if you like. Perhaps between us we’ll manage to catch something worth eating. Why aren’t you in the orchard today?”

  “Promised me mum I’d catch supper, sir.” Clayton replaced his lost bait with a fat grubworm. “She give me two hours, then back to the press.” He glanced toward the sun. “Reckon I’ve an hour to go.”

  After sharing his lunch, Thorne was about to leave when Clayton broke the silence. “Did ye know Henry, M’lord…the stable groom at the Hall?”

  Startled, Thorne took a moment to reply. “Aye, I knew Henry. Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Aye,” Clayton acknowledged, swinging his line in and grabbing hold of the trout on his hook. “One of me best mates, he was. Talked to him on his last day.” Biting his lip, Clayton baited his hook again and cast the line. “A mite upset, Henry was, with the master—oh, not ye, sir. The stable master. Seems Henry’d asked him a thing or two about the lady what was in the stables some nights before and had got into a row with the master.”

  “A lady in the stables,” Thorne echoed with a frown. “And she quarreled with the stable master?”

  “Aye, sir. She was a guest at the Hall, Henry said. Said the stable master nigh pulled her hair out.”

  “And what else did Henry say?” Thorne asked, as casually as if he were inquiring the time of day.

  Clayton kept his eyes on his line. “Said the stable master called the lady his sister. Said he called her some wicked names, too. Didn’t want her in his stables. The lady said he’d best treat her like a lady, and not tell anybody she was his sister. Then she give him notes and coin.”

  “Money,” Thorne murmured, his mind racing. “Did Henry happen to tell you the lady’s name?”

  The boy screwed up his nose as he thought about it. “Might have, sir. I don’t recollect.”

  “Never mind, your memory is remarkable. And you say Henry asked the stable master about the quarrel?”

  “Aye, sir. The stable master was hopping mad at him, too, for knowing about it. Told Henry if he wanted to keep his situation, he’d best keep mum about the lady and the quarrel!”

  Thorne stood up and wrapped his line, tucking the hook safely away. “Here. Take my catch. ‘Tisn’t much, but with yours it might be worth keeping.”

  “Much obliged, sir.” The boy tipped his cap.

  “Good fishing,” Thorne said with a nod. “See you at the press.”

  The rest of the afternoon was a blur. Thorne could think of little but what the boy had told him, Caroline’s arrival shoved to the back of his mind.Which of his wedding guests could be Hobbs’ sister, and how was it possible? He recalled every female guest who’d stayed at Wycliffe Hall. None seemed a likely candidate. Could the boy be mistaken? It was hearsay, after all; he might have confused the facts. But only Henry or Hobbs could verify them.

  And Henry was dead.

  *

  Stunning as ever, Caroline was warmer toward Thorne than he expected, though entirely proper.

  The perfect actress.

  Supper proved pleasant enough, but as an hour passed afterward in the drawing room, Thorne caught himself glancing at the adjoining library door. For the last three evenings, Elaine Combs had slipped into that room shortly after ten of the clock. As quiet as she was, he’d been keenly aware of her presence.

  At half past nine, Gwynneth excused herself for the night. Thorne assumed Caroline would do the same, but she lingered on the velvet settee. Her posture seemed somehow languorous, catlike, and the moment the door had closed, she pounced—at least, verbally.

  “You needn’t feel obligated to stay with me.”

  Thorne’s mouth quirked. “You’re dismissing me?”

  “‘Tis of no consequence to me what you do with your time, or where you do it. This is your house. Stay or go as you please.”

  “Then I shall go,” Thorne said pleasantly. “I’ve work waiting in the library.”

  Caroline shot up from the settee and, skirts awhirl, planted herself in front of the library doors. “You’re not going anywhere, Thorne Neville.”

  “I’d have sworn you bade me stay or go as I pleased.”

  “You owe me.”

  “Owe you what?”

  Her eyes narrowed, her bosom rising and falling more rapidly. “You know bloody well what. Your behavior to me at the Townsend’s was inexcusable. You’d no right to maul me-”

  “Maul you?” Thorne scoffed, coming closer. “I only gave you what you wanted…what you’ve wanted since you first set eyes on me.”

  She gasped. “What a cad you are!”

  “So I’ve been told. Quite recently, in fact.”

  “How dare you suggest I asked for such abominable treatment!” Her low voice trembled with indignation. She beat a fist on her bosom. “That I, who have just lost a dear husband, would even think to invite such attention from you…from any man!”

  It was too much. Thorne’s laughter rumbled up from deep within his chest.

  Caroline flew at him, one arm thrown back to strike; he whipped out a hand and grabbed her by the wrist. She raised her other arm, but it too was caught with lightning speed.

  She glowered at Thorne, her helpless fury finding no outlet but the tears that brimmed in the seething blackness of her eyes. “I hate you,” she hissed, twisting and pulling in his relentless grip.

  “Of course you do,” he mocked, tightening his hold.

  “You’re hurting me!” Her voice caught on an angry sob. “Let me go!�
�

  “Admit it, Caroline. Admit it, damn you.”

  “What?” she cried softly, still struggling. “Admit what?”

  Thorne yanked her to him, his face so close to hers he could feel his own breath; he ground his words through his teeth. “That you’ve deliberately teased and tormented me, time after time, hour after hour, day after day for weeks on end. That you’ve done everything short of throwing yourself at me. That you want me,” he said with a growl, giving her a little shake to squelch her indignant protest. “Have wanted me, in your bed and in your grasp from the start…admit it, Caroline. Say it.”

  “No!” She shut her eyes against his burning glare and shook her head. “You’re wrong, I never did.”

  “Look at me and tell me that,” he rasped.

  “No,” she murmured. But as he kept his unforgiving hold on her trembling arms, she opened her eyes…and whimpered at what she saw in his.

  The sound deepened to a vanquished moan as Thorne’s open mouth struck hers with such force that he tasted blood. Neither knowing nor caring whose it was, he crushed her against him, still holding her arms behind her bent back as he plundered and pillaged her lush mouth with a rapier-like tongue.

  His fingers loosened on her wrists, then released them, one hand going to the small of Caroline’s back and the other cupping her skull to press her into the onslaught of his kiss. Immediately he realized he’d underestimated her.

  He sensed her arms upraising, her fingers hooking to claw at his face—and chose that moment to glide his hands up and cup the the full curves of her bodice.

  She gasped, her knees buckling. All at once she was clinging instead of pushing, clawing not his face but his back and shoulders, as she met the demands of his mouth in full measure, her heart beating wildly beneath the breast overflowing his right hand.

  He had just caught her to him by her waist, when his eyes caught something else entirely—the soft glow of firelight beneath the library doors. He went stock-still.

  Caroline opened her eyes, the naked hunger in them turning to hurt pride as she saw Thorne’s transformed expression.

  His hands slid down her arms. He turned his back on her and, pacing to a window, drew the back of his hand across his mouth—a futile effort to erase his folly. He turned swiftly at the sound of her brief, mocking laughter.