The Heart Denied (4 page)

Except for one appendage. Thorne suddenly wished he'd worn a waistcoat. Pushing himself up off the boulder, he rose on unsteady legs.
No fault of the wine
, he thought with a wince.

"My lord?" Her voice sounded far away. "What is it, what ails you?"

Barely able to speak, Thorne held up a hand, then hobbled down the bank until he recovered his normal gait. He returned to find Gwynneth tucking the half-empty bottle into his cantle pouch.

"Why-" she began, but broke off as Thorne shook his head. He boosted her onto Abigail.

"Forgive me, Miss Stowington." Tightening the mare's girth, he gave Gwynneth a rueful smile. "But you are an angel in a woman's body...and the devil stands ready to take me to hell."

* * *

Thorne marked his place in the ledger on his desk, then glanced up from under his brow. "Why don't you inquire, Arthur? Instead of staring holes in my face."

"Forgive me, M'lord, I'd no idea I was staring. Quite rude of me."

Thorne slammed the ledger shut. "Yes, rude, you old fox. Are you not the least bit curious about the lady?"

"I'd quite forgotten her, M'lord, having seen neither hide nor hair of her. Perhaps she's of a more spiritual breed?"

Thorne pulled a wry face. "Very clever. Well I've seen both, though more hair than hide." He shoved the ledger aside and crossed his feet upon the desk. "And you
would
have seen her, had you not ducked out the instant Jennings announced them."

"I was better attired to greet their horses," Arthur reminded him wryly. "At any rate, should you insist upon discussing the lady, I'm game to listen."

"Oh, I insist. But I want more than your ear. Will a Scotch whiskey loosen your tongue? There's a fresh decanter on the way."

As if on cue, Elaine Combs knocked upon the door, which Thorne had left ajar. He waved her in. She set the decanter on the desk, curtseyed, and turned to go.

"'Tis your eyes, Combs."

She halted in her tracks, then turned slowly to face him. "M'lord?" she said faintly.

 "I've decided it is your eyes that seem familiar."

"M-my...eyes?" The orbs in question widened.

"Yes. They're the queerest gray, like doves. Almost silver."

Suddenly Thorne felt foolish. Arthur was staring at him as warily as Combs was.

"You may go, Combs." He'd meant to sound brusque, not harsh. Yet she looked relieved. Irritated and befuddled, Thorne turned his back on her exit, and poured the liquor into two glasses.

An unexpected wave of nostalgia struck him as he recalled his father doing the same for the steward from behind this very desk. Passing Arthur a glass, Thorne saw his thoughts reflected in the old brown eyes. "To my father," he murmured, raising his glass.

"To Lord Neville," Arthur agreed, doing likewise. "Past and present."

Thorne's glass stayed high. "And to Arthur Pennington, our loyal steward and friend. How long has it been?"

"Thirty years, M'lord. Yet even now I can picture your father sitting in that chair and looking as young as you."

The whiskey sent flames coursing down Thorne's throat and into his belly, where it settled in a pleasant pool of warmth. Turning his glass to and fro in his fingers, he watched the amber liquid swirl and shift. "I find myself in a quandary, Arthur."

"Over what, sir?"

Thorne grimaced. "You'll not make this any easier, will you."

"Nothing involving a woman is easy," Arthur said with a lopsided smile.

Thorne knocked back the rest of the dram and set the glass down. "She's a bold one, to be so young."

A flicker of concern crossed Arthur's face. "There's something to be said for boldness," he allowed, "within reason."

Thorne chuckled. "She is Radleigh's daughter, after all."

"Aye. And hence rather homely, I'd guess."

"No, quite comely. And well-schooled, and most virtuous." Thorne poured a second glass with a flourish and extended the bottle.

Arthur held out his glass. "Well, you'd expect virtuosity, wouldn't you, what with her being raised in a convent and all?"

"Yes. But once we're wed, she'll surely shed some of her more rigid notions."

Arthur's mouth opened and closed.

"What? If you've something to say, then say it."

Cupping the glass of whiskey in his hands, Arthur sat back in the chair. "Very well. Where's the need for haste? You're young, and whatever attraction you feel for the girl is merely carnal at this stage." Arthur's leathery cheeks turned ruddy. "Courtship is no luxury, M'lord, 'tis a necessity. Love requires time to grow. My Anna and I-"

"I see no point in waiting. 'Twas my father's wish that I marry Radleigh's daughter. Little enough for me to promise a dying man."

Arthur leaned forward in his chair. "Little? And your loyalty is commendable, but what of the rumors? What if Radleigh
has
gambled away his fortune, perhaps even his daughter's dowry? Would your father hold you to your promise, knowing that?"

Thorne gave a snort. "Any decline in Radleigh's finances is likely due to the bloody taxes the Crown levies on him for his Roman Catholic loyalties. At any rate, he's given up the tables. He told me so over brandy last eve."

"Thorne--M'lord." Arthur shook his head with an air of weary patience. "You know as well as I that if Radleigh has forsworn the gaming tables, he's likely up to his eyeballs in debt."

"Time will tell."

"Aye, I fear it will. Meanwhile, what of love?
There's
a debt that won't go unpaid, I assure you."

Thorne sighed, dragging his feet off the desk. "Marriages are made every day for naught but fortune, pedigree and politics, Arthur. And what bloody good has love ever done anyone?"

Arthur looked aggrieved. "Your parents-"

"Were fools."

Arthur recoiled in his seat. "I was about to say they loved one another dearly!"

"Yes, and all the more suffered for it! And lest you think me a blathering idiot, I have it on my father's dying word." Thorne tossed the whiskey down his gullet as he rose, then slammed the glass down and paced to a window. He stared out at the sparkling beck and the field of young wheat beyond, seeing none of it.

Arthur sounded quiet but insistent. "Whatever his lordship said, 'twas likely the laudanum talking. Delirium at best."

"'Twas my father." Thorne turned a hard stare on the steward. "
His
voice,
his
eyes.
His
hand that gripped my arm with more strength than he'd shown in months. 'Twas
he
who warned me to guard my heart from anything the least akin to love. 'Marry the girl, as I've promised her father, and sire a family,' he told me. 'But never let your heart be taken. Love, my son, is naught but sweet, slow poison.'
That
is what he told me, Arthur. And I haven't forgotten one bloody word of it."

Tears shone in Arthur's eyes. "Yet he loved your mother, heart and soul."

"Precisely."
Thorne gave him a chilling smile. "And for nearly two decades, I watched him walk as a dead man among the living. He could no longer be Catherine Neville's husband, nor could he be a father to me, because when she died, she took his bleeding heart with her to the grave." Despising the sudden thickness in his voice, Thorne turned abruptly to the window. When the beech trees across the road swam back into focus, he said more calmly, "So you'll understand why I don't for a moment take 'love' into account when reckoning Miss Stowington's suitability as a wife."

Arthur sighed. "I might understand, M'lord. But I'll never agree."    

* * * 

Elaine Combs looked up as Lord Radleigh poked his head around the door.

"Gwynneth?"

The Honourable Miss Stowington opened one green eye and sighed. "What is it, Father? I told you I've a dreadful headache. I must rest."

Chuckling, Lord Radleigh entered and drew near the bed, where Elaine sat cooling his daughter's brow with a damp cloth. "I saw the half-empty bottle Lord Neville brought back today. There's a price to drinking fermented beverages, Daughter."

"You should know. But I did not imbibe. Never have, and never shall."

His smile disappeared. "I'll let that first remark pass, 'tis the pain talking. You'll be glad to know that Lord Neville has informed his cook of your aching head. She's brewing a potent lavender-rosemary tea for it as we speak."

Miss Stowington opened her other eye. "She's an herbalist? I thought I smelled thyme and mint outdoors. No roses, though." She sighed. "I adore roses, we'd hundreds at Saint Mary's."

Her father leaned over her, a twinkle in his gaze. "If there aren't any now, I'd wager there soon will be." His eyes widened as soon as he said it; harrumphing, he pounded his chest and straightened, then asked hastily, "Are you up to traveling tomorrow, Daughter? We could stay an extra day if you like."

Elaine hastily lifted the cloth, as Miss Stowington started to raise her head but then winced and fell back onto the pillow. "
You
," the girl accused her father with a gasp, "are scheming to marry me off!"

Elaine's stomach flipped as she saw the flustered look on Lord Radleigh's face. The rumors she had so despaired of must be true.

"I'm doing no such thing!" he protested. "But now that you mention it"--he lowered his hulk onto the side of the bed and leaned toward his daughter--"'twould benefit all concerned were you to marry Lord Neville, yourself as well. He's a very generous and just man, much respected-"

"And far too astute to be manipulated by
you
."

Lord Radleigh's face flushed. "Hold your tongue, girl, and think on it! This grand Hall"--his hand swept the air in a wide arc--"and all its gardens would be yours to oversee, with some two-score of servants under your command."

Tasting gall, Elaine hastily rinsed out the cloth, then rose and busied herself brushing the dusty hem of the convent frock Miss Stowington had laid over a chair.

"But I'm needed at Radleigh Hall! Or so you said."

"'Twould be too much to ask, now that I ponder it again," Lord Radleigh said with a sigh. "The Hall is in disrepair and my servants are fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. And caring for me might prove a hardship for you, what with my gout and all."

He lowered his voice, but not enough, further amazing Elaine with what gentry would say in front of servants.

"You'd be set for life here at Wycliffe Hall, Gwynneth. So would your children. And Thorne would see to my comfort in my old age, and to Radleigh Hall's restoration and maintenance. After all, the place would be his upon my passing."

His daughter's tone turned brittle. "Where has your fortune gone, Father? Have I a dowry to offer?"

Glancing sidelong, Elaine saw the viscount's shoulders sag.

"I've incurred a sizeable debt to the Earl of...a certain earl," he confessed. "I'd no choice but to use a part of your dowry as collateral."

"Then Lord Neville will not want me," his daughter retorted, making Elaine's heart skip a beat. "You might as well send me back to the convent."

"Ha! You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Another glance showed the viscount wagging a finger near the girl's face. "You'll have your dowry, never fear," he assured her. "You're quite the catch at any rate, with your beauty and virtue and skills." Elaine pictured a wink with his next words. "Lord Neville's not so hard on the eyes, either, eh?"

Elaine's heart sank as she saw the virtuous young "catch" blush and trace a finger over the moiré silk counterpane.

"He is a handsome enough man," was the girl's soft admission. "Kind, as well."

Radleigh chuckled. "He'd get a house full of children on you, girl. He's a vigorous man. He'd seek your bed often."

"Stop, Father!"

Elaine silently echoed the plea, her stomach twisting. Yet she could not resist another glance. Eyes closed, Miss Stowington had pressed a hand to her heart and taken a fan from her sleeve. Her father promptly confiscated it to wave gusts of air onto her burning face.

"Well, Daughter?"

"I shall think about it," she conceded breathlessly, opening glazed eyes. "But not a word to
him
, I warn you. I've no idea whether he desires-"

"Oh, he desires all right," Radleigh cut in, sounding smug. "I've seen how he looks at you. He desires wholeheartedly."

Elaine covertly clutched her midsection, trying not to bend double.

"I meant
marriage
, not
me
."

Turning her head slightly, Elaine saw all trace of the blushing virgin vanish as Gwynneth Stowington reached out and stilled the fan in her father's hand.

"For I can tell you this, Father," she vowed grimly. "I shan't marry anyone just to repay your gambling debts.
Never
shall I enter the sacrament of marriage to pay for a sin."

From a window of her Georgian mansion, Caroline Sutherland stared across the brick-paved street at the greensward, where a duck had just waded from the pond to follow a big-breasted dowager walking a terrier. No doubt the bird mistook the waddling woman for his mother.

Caroline felt relieved to hear Marsh trudging up the stairs--until the old servant, huffing and puffing in the doorway, spoke in her graveled voice. "Mistress, that Mister Hobbs is come calling again."

"Bloody hell," Caroline muttered, then raised her voice. "Send him up, then."

"Aye, Mistress." Marsh shuffled away.

"For shame, Mistress Sutherland. You should be pleased to see your only kin."

Despite its mocking tone, his voice could melt a glacier. Caroline hadn't even heard him on the steps. And though Marsh was too deaf to hear her cursing, Tobias Hobbs was not.

Suppressing a shiver, Caroline turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, one fist braced against her glossy-white door casing, the other crumpling his woolen cap. Sweat spiked his cropped hair and glued his shirt to his chest. Mud and dung flecked his boots. "Get your grubby mitts off my woodwork," she ordered him through her teeth, "and close the door behind you."

Without budging a finger from the door casing, Hobbs flashed his own teeth in a mirthless smile. "What a gracious hostess you are, Caroline. A true credit to London society. Or so I hear."

"And
you
are utterly repulsive. How
dare
you come to my home looking and smelling the way you do? What must my servants think?"

His amber eyes narrowed. "At least my stench is that of an honest day's work. 'Tis more than I can say for yours."

"Mind your tongue," she warned him. "Is it money again? Neville isn't paying you enough to shovel horseshite?"

Hobbs stepped into the room, hooked a boot on the edge of the door, and slammed it behind him. "No hands." Sneer turned to scowl. "I'm here to see Horace."

"He's in Birmingham," Caroline hedged, scowling as well. "Why do you want to see him? And why the deuce would he care to see you?"

"When do you expect him?"

"I don't know. He didn't say, exactly." It was the humiliating truth.

"Well, tell him
I said exactly
that he'd best contact me when he returns. It takes too
bloody long to ride to London from Wycliffe, and I'll not do it again lest I know he's home." He gave her a leering smile. "Or if I need money. You'll
do for that."

"The devil I will!" Caroline stamped her foot and pointed at the door. "Get your buggering, stableman's arse out of my house! This minute!"

"Don't look now, sweeting, but your pedigree is showing."

"Hush! Shut your filthy mouth, you stinking son of a b-"

"
Baron
?" Hobbs supplied with an unpleasant smile. "Was that the word poised on those luscious lips, my beautiful base-born half-sister?" His smile fled. "Because I am
,
you know. The son of a baron."

"Mother should never
have told you." Caroline's voice trembled with fury. "And dead or not, I'll never forgive her for it."

"I'd as much right to know of my father as you did yours."

"And what good has it done you? Who'd believe you?" Scorn sharpened Caroline's hoot of laughter. "He'd fetch you straightaway to Bedlam, your Lord Neville, and who'd blame him? For all the good your knowing does, Toby Hobbs, you might as well have had no sire at all!"

He drew a ragged breath. "And
you
, Mistress Sutherland, might have married well, but deep down in your rotten core where none but you and I can see, you're naught but a whoring, mongrel
bitch
. Nor will you ever be."

He slammed his hat on his head, then yanked the door open and strode onto the gallery, missing the awesome sight of tawny skin gone pale.

* * *

"It's happened again, M'lord. This time McQuillen's ewes in the north pasture, four down and one ailing. Kendall's been and gone. 'Tis arsenic, he says. Where the deuce does one fetch powdered arsenic?"

"From a chemist." Thorne opened his desk drawer, took out a gold-plated humidor and flipped the top, then held it out to Arthur.

"The nearest we'll come to a chemist in Wycliffe," the steward mumbled as he lit the cigar, "is the good Doctor Hodges."

Thorne lit one and took a few puffs, then laid it down in the ash-receiver and squinted through the smoke. "Why should anyone want to kill off my stock?"

Arthur exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and shook his head. "'Tis beyond my reckoning."

Thorne drew hard on the cigar, then tamped it out. "Accounts are in good standing, cash reserves ample?"

"Aye." Arthur sat forward as his employer took up quill and parchment, scrawled a brief note, blotted it, and shoved it across the desk.

"Show this to Graham and McQuillen. I'll see to the other three. I want two men riding watch in three shifts from dusk to dawn. With lanterns, mind you. There'll be no moon tonight. Assign Graham and McQuillen first watch, I'll pair up with the odd man on second. The other two get third. We'll keep vigil nightly 'til we deem it unnecessary. And for now, the north pasture lies fallow.

Arthur nodded. "Will there be-"

"Hire two villagers," Thorne went on, "men that can be trusted to stay sober and awake, to watch from atop the tower in separate shifts. Compensation, you were going to say?" He nodded toward the paper in Arthur's hand. "More than adequate, I think."

Arthur glanced down, then cocked an eyebrow. "Adequate? You make it more profitable to let the vandal go unapprehended."

"A reward of five pounds in gold should hasten things along," Thorne countered. "Want of sleep will do the rest."   

* * *

The sun dropped below the horizon, leaving wide slashes of tangerine and crimson in its wake. The beck turned to liquid topaz, the air to a haze of copper as the sheep kicked up dust on homeward-bound paths.

Henry Pitts turned at the stable doorway to see Tobias Hobbs galloping Bartholomew down the Northampton road. He set down his pails of water and hurried into the yard. Hoping for a stick of candy from the London apothecary, he was handed two shillings instead. He grinned. "Thank ye, Master Hobbs!"

Hobbs nodded. "All's well?"

"Aye, sir. The viscount's daughter was here again! His lordship rode with her to Wycliffe to show her the church." Henry's eyes shone. "She's a beauty, ain't she, sir?"

"She's a lady, not a filly. Keep your tongue in your head, boy, your eyes, too. I saw a rider in the southwest pasture. Any notion why?"

"Aye! There's a watch out this eve, for vandals!"

Hobbs frowned. "What the devil are you prattling about?"

Henry told him what he'd heard.

"Never mind, I'll get to the bottom of it." Hobbs patted Bartholomew. "I've run him too hard, poor chap. Rub him down before he catches his death." He strode toward the stables. "Vandals," he said with a snort, then spat in the dirt. "Shite!"

* * * 

"Forgive the delay," Thorne said, straddling the trestle opposite Arthur at Duncan's public alehouse. "One of Milby's bitches had a devil of a time whelping."

"Aye." Arthur nodded Thorne's shirtfront. "You've the proof to show for it. Ever a trial for the poor washerwomen, weren't you? So, what say the herders?"

"All champing at the bit. The others?"

Arthur nodded. "And the young lady? You seem to have misplaced her."

"I left her at the church. She and the good vicar were deep in theology. He'll escort her back to the Hall for supper."

A woman set a pint of Kentish ale in front of Thorne, then curtsied. "Good eve, M'lord, will ye take some victuals? I've just took out a steak-and-kidney pie." She flashed a gap-toothed grin.

"No, Lizzie, thank you all the same." Thorne lowered his voice as she bustled away. "Milby says the north pasture had lain fallow for three days, so there's no telling what night the deed was done."

"When's your watch?"

"At two, with Timmons. I should get some sleep."

"You won't want to miss supper." Arthur's brown eyes twinkled in the light of the sputtering tallow flame. "Aren't Radleigh and his daughter bound for London tomorrow?"

Thorne grimaced. "Carswell will convey my apologies. I'm not up to dining with either of them, but the vicar will keep them entertained. I'll see them off come morn."

"You're that anxious to have her away, then?"

"I'm that anxious to have her. Period."

"Ah." Arthur looked down at his tankard. "You need some, ah, diversion. Is there someone you might...visit?"

Thorne envisioned a pair of emerald eyes and a cascade of auburn hair. "There was someone until recently. I've severed ties with her."

"Only one woman?" Obviously trying to cover his surprise, Arthur cleared his throat, then murmured as his face flushed a shade darker, "'Tis rumored there's an uncommonly clean, pox-free place just outside London."

Thorne decided against validating that rumor.

Arthur signaled for another pint, then leaned in on his elbows. "With all due respect, M'lord, and in the absence of your father, I'll inqire--was this woman a virgin when you met her?"

Thorne nearly choked on the dregs of his ale. "Hardly."

"Ah, a widow." Arthur nodded sagely. "Different breed altogether. No wonder you're avoiding Miss Stowington. Breaking a virgin is not a race, nor can you afford to be a loose cannon, even after you're wed. My Anna surrendered her maidenhead on our wedding night, but some women are more skittish, and might require a se'nnight, even a fortnight or more." Hearing Thorne's soft groan, Arthur smiled. "Patience is the test of true manhood, M'lord. Dig your heels in and grit your teeth. 'Tis well worth the torment in the end, when your bride is at last willing, perhaps even eager-"

"There, that will do." Thorne dropped his head into his hands and pressed hard on his temples. "Damn it, Pennington, I was under tight rein when I walked in here, and at this rate I'll not be able to walk out. Not without embarrassing myself, at any rate. Bloody hell."

Chuckling, Arthur reminded him another pint was on the way.

Conversation reverted to the watch, but Thorne's mind was only half there.
Patience be damned. I'll at least know Gwynneth's mind on the prospect of a betrothal.

When Lizzie had come and gone, Thorne tapped his brimming tankard against Arthur's, and with a "bottoms up" quaffed his ale. "Fortification," he explained, seeing the steward's bewilderment. He lay coin on the table and rose from the trestle. "For what lies ahead."

"Your two o'clock watch?"

Thorne grinned. "Aye, that too."

* * *

Standing in the Wycliffe road next morning, one hand on a flank of Arthur's horse, Thorne watched Radleigh's coach round the bend. "Yonder she goes, Arthur. The future Lady Neville."

"You're betrothed, then, ring and all?"

"I am. You'll be glad to know I proposed on bent knee, and with a heartfelt speech."

"Caught you in a weak moment, did she?"

Thorne smiled. "I won't deny my libido was involved. But the fondness I professed was no less sincere for it."

Arthur snorted. "No doubt. And how does the Honourable Miss Stowington take to being the pawn in a predetermined match?"

Thorne's smile faded. "She doesn't know. Radleigh thinks it best she never know this was our plan."

"Never?"

"She believes he hatched it alone. She would have taken the vows at Saint Mary's, you see. 'Twas her life's wish."

"Sweet Jesu." Arthur shook his head.

"Be glad she's out of earshot, oh thou blasphemer," Thorne said wryly, taking hold of the bridle. "Come, let me get horsed. You might have to nudge me awake now and then. I didn't see my bed last night." He chuckled at Arthur's inquiring look. "No, my friend, nor did I see hers."