The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  “I have,” Thorne replied, but made no move to produce it.

  Lord Whittingham frowned. “Well, if I remember correctly, I mentioned the difficulty of keeping the servants quiet.”

  “Only a mention, as you say. I vaguely recall it.”

  The earl squirmed slightly in his chair. “And what are your thoughts on the matter?”

  Thorne shrugged. “Actually, I haven’t given it any.”

  Lord Whittingham took his feet off the ottoman and sat upright in his chair. “You forget, Neville, we’re not in the country here. Rumors spread throughout London like wildfire, a man’s reputation can be ruined in a matter of hours.” The black eyes glittered. “Parliament, though its members aren’t monkish by any means, is less than understanding when one of them openly flouts the rules of genteel society, particularly one who is landed gentry and holds a seat in the House of Lords.” The mustachioed mouth took a smug curve.

  Thorne smiled, too. “Those members of Parliament who are not monkish generally use common sense. Few announce themselves in broad daylight or by their true names.” He glanced at the proprietress. “Wouldn’t you concur, Madame?”

  Lord Whittingham waved the question away. “Servants are not all stupid, and many recognize a nobleman when they see him.”

  “Aye, and in a house such as this, they’re paid handsomely enough to wear blinders…no?” Again he directed his question at the madam. She sighed, evidently beginning to lose patience as well, no doubt having thought like Lord Whittingham that this entire matter would be resolved quickly and cleanly.

  “There are always those crafty servants who let the cat out of the bag but never get caught holding the bag,” Lord Whittingham reminded him sharply. “They are your Achilles heel here.”

  Thorne sat back, assuming the face he wore at the gaming tables. “And just what will it take to deflect Paris’ arrow?”

  Lord Whittingham looked like a toad whose sticky tongue had just reeled in a fly. “Keep in mind that Madame has many servants in her employ, not to mention the ‘ladies.’ One never knows what might be said in the privacy of a bedchamber…and you are not by any means the only influential patron of this establishment.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Touché,” Lord Whittingham murmured with a dead-eyed smile.

  “Surely you’ve a figure in mind, then?”

  Madame Claire interjected, puffing her chest out self-importantly. “You must remember M’lord, that my time and trouble have been quite consumed with the bien-être of both the mother and the child.”

  Lord Whittingham, momentarily distracted by her generous décolletage, dragged his attention back to Thorne. “I can vouch for that. Madame DuFoire went far beyond what was required of her in the care of Katherine Devlin.”

  “She was well paid to do so,” Thorne reminded him flatly.

  “Those funds are quite depleted,” Lord Whittingham said crossly. “So of course I have a sum in mind, a rather meager one, but it should cover costs, the major of those being silence.”

  “Numbers, please.”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  “Pounds, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Thorne smiled.

  “What, you find that amusing?”

  “I have never found extortion amusing.”

  “You and your father,” Lord Whittingham said with a sneer. “Ever the ones to hold morality dear. Yet you’ve begotten a child out of wedlock, with a whore, no less!”

  “I know my sins, and one or two of my father’s as well,” Thorne said coolly. “But neither of us could be accused of extortion—or child molestation, or attempted incest.”

  The madam gasped, while the earl’s swarthy face paled. “Your father was a liar if he told you such about me!”

  “My father told me naught,” Thorne retorted. “Even when I asked why you no longer visited, he was unwilling to sully your name. I, however, have no such scruples.”

  “Nor have I,” chimed a feminine voice from somewhere behind them.

  Thorne’s blood froze.

  Lord Whittingham strained to peer around the high back of his chair. “Who is that? Who speaks?” he demanded. “Step forward and tell me who gave you bloody permission to intrude!”

  Lena glided into the room, halting in partial shadow. “No one gave me bloody permission, Papa. I bullied my way in. You understand the concept, surely.”

  Lord Whittingham nearly twisted himself in half as he leaned over the arm of his chair. “Maddie?…is that you?” He squinted at the tall, willowy woman who had just moved into the warm circle of light. “It cannot be—oh, sweet Jesu, ‘tis you!” He half stood, wild eyes darting to Thorne, whose expression had gone from inscrutability to feral watchfulness. Looking back at his daughter, he groped for the seat of his chair, clutching at his chest, and fell onto the plush velvet as if the wind were knocked out of him.

  Madame Claire, jaws agape, made neither move nor sound.

  Slowly, Lena approached the group. Lord Whittingham, ashen and perspiring, seemed unaware of the look that passed between his daughter and his other caller.

  “I’d given you up for dead, Maddie,” he said, his voice cracking. “I searched for you constantly, everywhere I went-” He broke off, leaning forward to peer more closely at her. “God, you’ve the look of your mother, girl…now more than ever…” He made as if to rise, already reaching for her.

  “Dare not!”

  Stunned, Lord Whittingham froze in mid-move. His look of sick fascination for Lena turned to confusion as Thorne became his focus.

  “No, Thorne, this is my cause!” Lena turned to her father. “I warn you, Papa, that if you value your life, you won’t lay a hand on me, not even in greeting.” She eyed the scar on his forehead. “And this time I’ll need no fire-iron to make good my warning.”

  “You dare to threaten me?” Lord Whittingham heaved himself to his feet. “You are yet my daughter!” His eyes were black coals burning in the furnace of his now florid face. “By God, Madelena Hargrove, you will tender me the respect I am due!”

  “Which is none at all!” she declared in a ringing voice. “Respect must be earned, Papa, not demanded. You’d have done well to keep that in mind years ago. So, you thought me dead? I doubt that. Likely you wished me dead, ‘twas what you gave others to believe, rather than reveal your sick little games…how dared you fondle me, mere child that I was, as if I were your whore, and then beat me about the head when I cried for help! No doubt you killed Mama, but if she died at her own hand, as you say, I don’t wonder—‘twas better borne than your cruel perversity!”

  “This is calumny!” Lord Whittingham cried hoarsely. “You vicious, lying little trollop, I’ll be damned if I let you defy me another moment!” His eyes bulged from their sockets; spittle flew from his lips. “By God, I’ll have you hauled forthwith to-”

  He broke off with a painfully loud gulp, finding his throat suddenly in a vise and his field of vision engulfed by a pair of ice-blue eyes.

  “Touch her,” came Thorne’s growled warning, “and I will kill you where you stand.”

  Madame Claire gasped a “Mon Dieu” and crossed herself. Lord Whittingham merely gagged, until Thorne relaxed his grip. “Remember your place and my rank, Neville,” he managed to croak then, his face a mottled shade of port. “Madelena is my daughter!”

  “And she is my wife.” Hissed through Thorne’s teeth, the words slashed the air like a fine-bladed sword…and drew blood, if the earl’s sudden pallor was any indication.

  *

  Seeing the malignant promise in Thorne’s eyes, Lena shivered; she would never have believed him capable of such a look. Whether out of some odd sense of obligation to protect her father, or merely for reassurance that her gentle husband lurked somewhere behind that deadly gaze, she moved to Thorne’s side and hooked her arm through his.

  Whittingham stared at the two of them, and, as comprehension slowly dawned, seemed to age before the
ir eyes. His sickly pallor exaggerated the sagging jowls, the heavily veined beak of a nose, the lines and dark pouches under his eyes.

  “You’re just like her,” he whined, “your accursed mother. Begrudged my gaming and every twit that ever warmed my bed—yet she wouldn’t warm it. Said I was a Cretin, a beast. But I put her in her place soon enough, and showed her a thing or two in the bargain. She never issued me another ultimatum, by God…” his voice trailed away as he registered his daughter’s stare of repugnance.

  Madame Claire hastened forward and laid a firm hand on his sleeve. “His lordship is tired and out of his head at the moment,” she said nervously, wincing as he tried to throw off her hand. “But let us keep in mind our true affaires here.” Lena saw her give Whittingham’s arm a quick, hard squeeze. “You may see the enfant now, M’lord. Venez, puis.”

  She led her visitors up a winding staircase and into a room that had been transformed into an attractive nursery. Whittingham lagged behind as if he’d lost heart in the proceedings, but Madame Claire’s silk skirts rustled briskly in the stillness as she swept across the room to an ornately carved crib.

  Lena held Thorne’s arm tightly as they approached the sleeping babe. She saw the tic in Thorne’s jaw and knew that despite his outward calm he was in turmoil, and her heart ached for him.

  She looked down at the babe. A soft cry escaped her.

  He was beautiful. Utter perfection. Like my Catherine, she thought, and felt her heart swell as she imagined the two of them together. By all appearances the boy’s age was relevant to the time of conception claimed in Whittingham’s letter. Deep-auburn hair framed his tawny face in tiny curls.

  Smiling upon him benevolently, the madam stroked the babe’s cheek, and suddenly he opened his eyes.

  Eyes, Lena noted with quickening heartbeat, more intense and vividly blue than those of anyone she had ever met in her life, with the exception of two people: Robert and Thorne Neville.

  A chill went up her spine as Thorne’s muscles went rigid beneath her hand, and she knew at that moment that he acknowledged the babe as his own.

  Yet he said nothing. He seemed dazed.

  “Is he not a parfait spécimen of noblesse?” the madam asked, her tone wheedling. “See the broad brow, and the healthy bloom of his cheeks…have you ever laid eyes on such a child?”

  Lena saw Thorne blink, felt the leap of his pulse.

  “Aye,” he said slowly, “but only in a dream.”

  *

  Thorne blinked again, disoriented by a wave of dizziness. Of course! This was the babe Katy had laid in his arms.

  “M’lord, are you unwell?”

  The madam’s plaintive voice invaded his consciousness. He shook his head slightly and focused upon Lena, who was watching him anxiously.

  When? When, what night, had he dreamed it?

  “Thorne, what is it?” Lena whispered.

  He stared at her blankly, straining to recall. Shortly before Catherine was born…yet Catherine was not the infant in the dream. Not yet, Katy had seemed to say upon presenting him with the child…dear God, a premonition of her death, then. She was entrusting the babe to me before she died. He shut his eyes for a second, then pinned them on the madam. “Have you some form of proof that this child is mine?”

  Sensing that Lena was about to protest, he stilled her with a quick squeeze of her arm, and felt her stiffen. Just then Whittingham stepped forward, rubbing his bruised throat.

  “Are you blind, Neville?” he rasped. ‘Tis in the eyes, man! This is no time for bluffing, your son’s welfare is at stake here!”

  “I asked for proof,” Thorne repeated coldly. “Any barrister will tell you that there is not a court in the land that would deem eye color testimonial to a child’s paternity.”

  Claire DuFoire looked about to cry; Whittingham trembled with suppressed rage. “Then the child will be transferred to Sheffield House for Indigent Orphans this very eve, Neville. And lest you have it in mind to go there and adopt him, you should know that Sheffield House maintains a waiting list for infants, and the orphanage’s policy is quite strict. The child will go to the very first couple on the roster, no exceptions. No title of peerage will allow a client to take precedence over one ahead of him, and there are several already waiting. I say again, no exceptions.”

  Thorne shrugged. “Do what you must. I’ve no wish to support the bastard child of a whore.”

  *

  The coach had just begun to roll when the earl came storming across the portico and down the walk. “I could ruin you,” he croaked desperately.

  The horses were halted; Thorne leaned his head out the window. “Not before I’d ruined you, my lord. Your reputation precedes you, and I know of at least two very young girls in Whitechapel who would come before the magistrate with tales of your latest sick escapade.”

  It was an impasse never to be breached. As Lena looked on, her father spat on the coach, then turned on his heel and marched back up to the house.

  *

  “Lena, what is it?”

  He sounded so calm, so gentle. She stared blindly out the window, tears threatening to overflow, and searched her memory for anything that might have indicated such a flaw in his personality. A psychosis, perhaps? She’d read of a woman with two distinct personalities. And then came a thought so awful her heart skipped a beat.

  Vengeance.

  She had deserted him. She had borne his half-brother’s child. And she had deceived him about her identity. Was this his revenge?

  But suddenly he was beside her, and try as she might, she could sense no threat from his nearness; only a solid, reassuring warmth.

  “I can see you’re quite put out with me,” he said quietly. “Why?”

  Tears plummeted to her overskirt. “Because apparently the man I thought I knew, the man I have loved all my life, my champion up to this very afternoon…never existed.”

  “What man is that?”

  “Oh Thorne,” she cried, turning to face him. “Don’t persist in this farce, you know I speak of you!”

  He frowned. “I know it now. What do you mean, I never existed?”

  “The man I saw in that nursery this afternoon bore no resemblance whatsoever to the man I married, but was so cold and cruel that he made my skin crawl. How, Thorne, how could you deny your own child? You know as well as I that he’s yours, yet you looked so awfully glad to hear he would go to an orphanage! Why? Because of what his mother was?” Her voice caught on a sob. “Which, by the by, you said outright in his presence…will you tell Catherine, then, that I was a whore? Is this your revenge upon me?”

  Without knowing quite how, she found herself clamped fiercely to Thorne’s side in a one-armed embrace, her head cupped firmly in his other hand and her face upturned to his. “Never,” he said hoarsely, “never again refer to yourself in that way…do you hear?”

  Looking into his face, Lena saw all the compassion that was nowhere to be found when they had stood beside the infant’s crib—as well as pain, adoration, and a deep abiding love. All for her.

  “Answer me, Madelena.”

  “Very well, I shan’t ever again.” Fresh tears trickled down her cheek.

  He pressed kisses to her eyelids, her wet cheeks, and then her mouth. “Forgive me,” he murmured against her lips. “Forgive me for deceiving you.”

  “Deceiving me?”

  “‘Twas not my intent to deceive you,” he said gently. “Remember, I hadn’t planned on your entrance. Had you not distracted me so, I’d have been far more convincing in my role.”

  “Your role?” She struggled to sit upright, her heart beginning to race.

  He nodded. “As the arrogant nobleman, the sort who refuses responsibility for anything that doesn’t meet society’s approval.”

  “Which is exactly what you did.”

  “Aye, but I’d have done it much more impressively without those tortured dove-eyes of yours upon me all the while.”

  She grabbed his hands, and
the pitch of her voice rose with her excitement. “You’re saying ‘twas all an act?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you do believe the babe is yours?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “I knew it!” she crowed. “I felt it the instant you did…so now tell me, why the charade?”

  “Because I refuse to purchase my son, Lena—from anyone, much less my own fatherin-law, brigand that he is. But make no mistake about it, love, I’ve every intention of securing him and raising him under my roof.”

  Lena squeezed his hands. “Soon?” she asked breathlessly.

  Thorne nodded toward the window. “We’re approaching the city now.”

  She uttered a little cry of delight, realizing they were indeed headed in the opposite direction of home, but then turned to Thorne with a stricken look. “The waiting list…” Tears surfaced again. “Your son must be awarded to strangers, ‘tis the policy of the orphanage!”

  Thorne drew her to him. “No, my love. Hush now, and listen.

  “Moments ago, you mentioned how glad I looked when Lord Whittingham told us the child’s destination. There was a reason for my gladness, Lena, the very reason we left Madame Claire’s house as quickly as we did.” He drew out a handkerchief and gently blotted her cheeks. “You see, it so happens I know of a way to circumvent the orphanage’s official policy.”

  “You do?” She gazed hopefully at him through her tears.

  “I do indeed.” A smile played about his lips. “‘Sheffield,’ you might recall, was my mother’s family name. Sheffield House, as you might have soon guessed, was a part of her dowry…also her passion, her life’s greatest work…and her legacy to me.”

  Lena stared, slack-jawed, as Thorne’s smile broadened.

  “Aye, my lady…I am owner, benefactor, and policy-maker of Sheffield House for Indigent Orphans.”

  EPILOGUE

  The pair of them stooped on the broad flat boulder at beck’s edge, heads together over their find, the boy’s auburn hair afire in the setting sun, the tips of the girl’s chestnut-colored braids brushing her lap. Taking a smaller child by the hand, they placed the tiny green frog in her open palm. She examined it warily, then shook her tawny little head, at which point her brother quickly rescued it from certain calamity.