Lady Lyte's Little Secret (26 page)

The interior of her carriage suddenly felt so large and still and empty without Thorn’s presence.

Not that he had a
presence
, as such. At least not in the vivid, high-flown, effusive style of his friend Weston St. Just. Thorn Greenwood had a character not unlike the Cumberland countryside. Quiet, steady and unassuming, yet rich in true worth, gentle strength and durable virtue. Or so Felicity had come to believe.

How could she have misjudged him so?

Had
she misjudged him?

In her solitude, Felicity could not hide from the truth. Perhaps she had not been mistaken in Thorn’s character during the long, sweet days and nights they had shared on the journey north. More likely she had
judged wrong in those brief anguished moments when old fears had overwhelmed her and a lifetime of bitterly cultivated suspicion had blighted the vulnerable bud of her trust in him.

Though there was no one to see her, Felicity hid her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with mute, dry sobs that the gentle moisture of tears might have eased. Except she had squandered all her tears in an unworthy cause.

She had believed there could be no worse heartache than to suffer domination or betrayal by those closest to her. But in that, too, she’d been wrong.

It was a far more cruel blow to see her few admirable qualities governed by her faults. And to live with the bitter certainty that she had betrayed her own happiness out of blind, selfish pride.

A sharp pain gripped Felicity deep in the belly, making her cry out. Mr. Hixon must have heard it, for the carriage slowed to a halt almost at once.

Barely a moment later, the carriage door flew open and the young footman peered inside. “What’s the matter, Lady Lyte?”

The pain had loosened its clutches on her, leaving her weak and shaken.

“Nothing of consequence, Ned.” Felicity tried to sound a good deal better than she felt.

She couldn’t be taken ill now. Not so far from home, with no one to care for her but a couple of servants—menservants at that. “Once we reach Trentwell, I shall be right as rain, again. Now be a good fellow and tell Mr. Hixon to drive on.”

The boy did not obey her order with the alacrity Lady Lyte expected from her servants. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you don’t look well.”

“Of course I don’t look well,” Felicity snapped. She could feel another wave of pain beginning to build, and she did not want the young footman to witness it. “Neither do you, to be frank. Who would expect us to after such a long journey in such haste? I order you to leave off pestering me and instruct Mr. Hixon to make haste for Trentwell.”

When he continued to hesitate, staring at her with an anxious countenance, she cried, “Now!”

Before Ned could obey, the pain swept her up again like a rat in the powerful jaws of a terrier. Determined not to cry out this time, Felicity bit into her lower lip until she tasted blood, warm and salty.

To her surprise and vast relief, Ned slammed the carriage door shut, and the carriage soon began to move again.

But not for long.

The pain had tamed to a constant, almost bearable pitch when her carriage drew up in front of a red brick coaching inn.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded through clenched teeth when her driver and footman edged open the carriage door.

Ned stared at his boots, as if expecting to find the answer to his mistress’s question written on the toes. “You’re not well, ma’am. You need rest, or a physician, or…something. Mr. Greenwood asked me to look after you, and I don’t mean to let him down.”

Perhaps the knowledge that Thorn had cared enough for her to bid her servants so should have eased Felicity, but it did not. After the things she had said to him and to his sister, she did not merit such consideration.

Her coachman appeared even more troubled than
the young footman at the prospect of disobeying orders. Yet Mr. Hixon supported young Ned in his well-meant mutiny.

“What you don’t need, ma’am, is another long drive. You may dismiss the pair of us without character when you’re well again, but until then, we won’t budge another mile.”

“Very well.” She was too sore and spent to argue with them just then. The prospect of resting on a bed, even a hired one far from home, appealed to her.

Felicity managed to pull herself out of the carriage box, but then her strength deserted her and she collapsed into Mr. Hixon’s muscular arms.

She must be losing her baby. There could be no other explanation for the location and intensity of the pain.

Yet even as her heart quailed with grief at this final loss, she had to concede it might not be unjust. After the way she had so recently bullied the young man she claimed to love like a son, how she had questioned his choices, threatened his happiness and tried to control his actions, Lady Lyte was forced to acknowledge that she might be too selfish a creature ever to make a satisfactory mother.

“I wish Mother could have seen you today, my dear.” Thorn pressed his lips to his sister’s brow as they prepared to enter the small parish church in Gretna Green. “I believe she would have been as proud of you as I am.”

Ivy’s delicate chin trembled, and her usual bright smile crumpled until she looked half her present age. Like a mischievous little girl whose latest prank had gone dangerously awry.

“Dear brother, you mustn’t make me blubber right before my wedding, though I’m sure I deserve it.”

Thorn fished out a handkerchief and passed it to her, just in case.

Ivy dabbed her nose. “To think I fancied myself a matchmaker! Match-wrecker, more like. After the way I spoilt everything between you and Lady Lyte, you’d have been well within your rights to bundle me home to Barnhill and lock me in the attic until I grew some sense.”

“Now, now.” With the crook of his finger, Thorn tilted her pert little chin up to its customary cheerful angle. “Locked in the attic at Barnhill? That sounds rather harsh to me. Why not just transport you to Botany Bay and be done with it?”

Ivy rewarded his clumsy jest with a crooked smile. “You really mustn’t pretend to take it so well. You’ll make me feel far worse than if you lit into me.”

“I’ll own I’m not pleased over how things fell out between Felicity and me,” Thorn admitted, “but that’s hardly your fault. I know you had the best intentions for our happiness. If she could believe that you and I plotted this whole scheme as a means to entrap her and her nephew, then perhaps I am well rid of Lady Lyte.”

And perhaps if he repeated those words to himself often enough, he might come to believe them.

The spring breeze ruffled Ivy’s curls and the Scottish sunshine anointed them with a deep golden lustre. Her blue-green eyes seemed to see past Thorn’s proud protest and into his turbulent heart.

“I don’t believe that now any more than I did when Oliver and I left Bath. And I feel certain that in her
heart of hearts Lady Lyte doesn’t believe any of those dreadful things she said about all of us.”

Shaking his head, Thorn treated his sister to an indulgent half smile. “I wish I could share your boundless optimism, my dear.”

“This is more than just me hoping for the best, Thorn.” Ivy clasped his hand and looked deep into his eyes, as if willing him to partake of her own ardent conviction. “Remember how Merritt accused Rosemary of entrapping him when he found out we’d lost our fortune?”

“I’m not likely to forget, am I?” It had all but torn him in two, watching his beloved sister and his dear friend make each other so unhappy.

“They’d probably never have reconciled if it hadn’t been for you,” Ivy said, “though I know you’ll never own to playing matchmaker.”

Thorn affected his most stern brotherly tone. “If you have any notions of interceding for me with Lady Lyte, you may put them out of your mind, young lady. I will not have it. Do you hear?”

“I hadn’t any thought of the kind!” Ivy protested. “You and Lady Lyte must serve as your own match-makers, Thorn. I know you can if you will only try.”

She nodded toward the sanctuary where her bridegroom awaited her. “I’ve done a good deal of growing up this past week, you know. After some of the things Oliver told me about he and his aunt, I feel quite sorry for anyone with a large fortune. How are they to trust that anyone cares for them?”

Felicity had once believed he had no designs on her fortune. Thorn remembered how her admission had touched him.

Ivy gripped his hand harder. Thorn had never seen
his blithe, flighty little sister so passionately earnest. “When Lady Lyte said those things, what she meant was that she doesn’t believe she deserves to be loved for herself alone. It’s not you she mistrusts—but herself.”

He opened his mouth to tell Ivy that she’d let the romantic fancies of her wedding day get the better of her. But before he could get the words out, a swarm of memories unfolded in his mind. The most vivid was less than a day old, as they’d been driving into Carlisle. Thorn could hear Felicity’s wistful murmur as clearly as if he’d been holding her in his arms.

“I’m not half good enough for you
.”

Could what Ivy said be true? Or was he only clinging to a hopeful falsehood because he wasn’t man enough to face the truth?

“You must go after her, Thorn.” Ivy grasped his hand with such force it almost made him cry out. “I know once she’s had a chance to think things through, Lady Lyte will realize she was wrong. And what else is there to do on a long carriage drive
but
think?”

If only his innocent little sister knew! A searing blush crept upward from Thorn’s collar.

Just then, Oliver Armitage appeared at the church door with an anxious expression on his lean, clever face.

Ivy glanced toward him, her eyes dancing with devilish glee. “Unless one has congenial company, that is!”

Perhaps the little minx knew almost as much as he did, Thorn decided, remembering the passionate embrace in which he’d caught Ivy and Oliver that morning.

Oliver Armitage cocked an eyebrow at his bride as
if to ask what she found so confoundedly amusing while he was a perfect bundle of nerves. “I feared you’d got a case of cold feet and persuaded your brother to fetch you back home again.”

“Never!” The sparkle in Ivy’s eyes deepened into a fond glow as she gazed at her husband-to-be. “I was only giving Thorn the benefit of more matchmaking advice…after I swore to myself I’d never play Cupid again.”

“Come along then, Lady Cupid.” Thorn tucked his sister’s hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let’s not keep your bridegroom waiting any longer.”

Oliver ducked back inside the sanctuary again, while Thorn and Ivy followed at a more decorous pace.

As they reached the church door, Ivy hesitated on the threshold. For a moment Thorn wondered if she was having second thoughts.

His sister glanced up at him. “Will you do something for me, Thorn—as a wedding present?”

How had she known that he regretted having no gift for her on this special day?

“Very well, my dear. Name your favor.”

“Go after Lady Lyte, if only to make certain she gets back to Trentwell safely. I know Oliver is worried about her and feels badly for going against her wishes after how good she’s been to him.”

The little minx! “Hadn’t you ought to be thinking about your own romantic connection, now, rather than meddling in mine?”

She turned her sweet imploring gaze upon him, the one Thorn had never succeeded in resisting. “You wouldn’t disappoint your little sister on her wedding day, would you?”

Young Armitage would have his work cut out for him managing this one. Thorn rolled his eyes and muttered a grudging, “Very well, then, but only because I’m afraid you’ll keep me here arguing at the church door until your poor bridegroom does something desperate.”

Ivy squeezed his arm and treated him to the warm doting smile she always wore when she had gotten her way. “You won’t be sorry, I promise you. Love has great power, you know, if only we have the courage to use it.”

A shiver went through Thorn. Where had he heard those words before?

“Come on, then,” whispered Ivy, tugging him forward. “I don’t want to keep poor Oliver waiting.”

As he made his way to the foot of the altar, with Ivy on his arm, Thorn cast an approving glance around the simple Scottish church. Oliver and Ivy might have eloped to Gretna, but Thorn had insisted on a proper Christian ceremony to bless their union. No hasty, furtive rite performed over an anvil by a “blacksmith priest” for
his
sister!

The vicar cleared his throat and scarcely glanced down at his prayer book as he began to speak the familiar words, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

A short time later, when he asked who gave this woman to be joined in wedlock, Thorn answered, “I do” in a firm, confident voice. Yet he placed Ivy’s hand in her bridegroom’s with a sense of wistful reluctance.

Why, it seemed just the other day he’d gathered the downy little creature from her cradle and borne her off
to say one last goodbye to their dead mother, even though he knew the baby would never remember it.

Here she stood before him, after those swiftly passing years, speaking her vows in a clear melodious voice. A beautiful young woman, sometimes impulsive and frivolous but always kind-hearted and hopeful. He’d done his best for her, ill-equipped though he’d been for the task.

Now he must entrust responsibility for her to a young man who looked anxious and adoring, in equal measure. A young man who, unless Thorn missed his guess, had little experience with the fair sex. Oh well, Ivy had managed to thrive in spite of an unseasoned surrogate father. A green husband would not likely put her off her stride.

A mellow warmth settled deep in Thorn Greenwood’s heart, unkindled by any doing of his. As if his mother were trying to tell him, in the only way she could, that she approved the loving, muddled job he’d made of bringing up her baby.

Suddenly, he knew where he had first heard Ivy’s naively wise advice about the power of love and the courage to use it. Long ago, when his mother had told him fairy stories of enchanted princesses rescued from the spells that held them captive by the kiss of true love.