The Heart Denied (5 page)

Even for a Saturday night, Duncan's public alehouse seemed particularly rowdy. Maneuvering a tray of empty pewter tankards past the crowded trestle tables, Lizzie barely dodged a stream of spittle intended for the nearest cuspidor.

"I hope you've better aim in the privy closet, mister!" she scolded over the din. A shout of laughter went up, while the guilty party blushed and choked on his ale as his mates slapped him on the back.

"Here now, leave the lad alone, he's a bit green is all." The new arrival was a regular patron. "Lizzie, dearling, bring us a round...
on me
."

The ensuing catcalls and jeers didn't faze Tom Barker. He sat down on the trestle with uncustomary dignity.

"Perchance ye've come into some inheritance?" mocked one crony.

"Same as." Looking smug, Barker plunked a leather pounch down on the table and opened it to display a pile of shillings topped with several crinkled pound-notes and two gold sovereigns.

A low whistle broke the sudden silence. "Where'd ye fetch a purse like that, Tommy? Been grave robbing, have ye?"

Nervous laughter ended almost as soon as it began. Barker leaned in over the table, a leer on his face. "I been telling all of ye for years I'd find me a lady who'd pay what I'm worth."

Amid guffaws, the man who'd challenged Tom said with a sneer, "Come on, Barker, ye ol' blowhard! Tell us who's lying in the gutter with an empty purse now't ye've gone and cold-cocked him."

Like a shot, Barker dove across the table, overturning ale tankards to grasp the man's shirtfront with a beefy hand and twist it toward him. "Mind your manners, Jakey boy, 'cause
ye're
the only blowhard 'round here!" His rheumy eyes bored into Jake's, whose own began to bulge. Barker shoved him back on the trestle, then sat down and mopped his forehead with a sleeve. "I earned this pot fair and square," he said, focusing his indignant look on each man in turn. "And if ye're smart as ye
think
ye be," he went on, voice rising as a titter of laughter threatened the tense silence, "ye'll hold your tongues and enjoy what it buys. 'Cause after all, me boys," --he winked, a gap-toothed grin folding his jowls-- "I be a sharing man!" He seized a foaming tankard from Lizzie's tray and held it in the air.

"Hear, hear!" some shouted, and the rest joined in as Lizzie set full tankards all around the table.

The door to the street swung wide. Barker squinted through a pall of smoke at two new arrivals, his expression turning surly as he saw Duncan slip from behind the bar to lead them past the gaming and the empty hearth to a quiet corner. "Since when does Duncan give escort? Who does Neville think he is, the bloody king hisself?"

A couple of Barker's mates tried to hush him.

"I ain't going to be quiet if I don't want to be," he blustered, belching before he continued. "Look at his lordship's fine
linen" --he belched again, pointing a stubby finger-- "shirt, aye, and them fine leather boots, will ye. Now there's a man what's never been hungry!
He
don't fret for his next pence." He banged a ham-like fist on the table. "I'll wager nobody ever asked
him
whence his purse come! Never mind it come from the sweat of poor working folk, likely their blood as well-"

"Shut your foul mouth, Tom Barker, ere I shut it for ye!"

Apparently awed by Lizzie's rare temper, every man at the table fell silent.

"His lordship is a good man, a decent and just man," she scolded, her nose just inches from Barker's bulbous snout. "He'd give a body the shirt off his back if 'twas needed--and ye
know
that, Tom Barker, ye know it well. 'Twasn't yourself that kept your mother out of the poorhouse them two bad years, now was it?"

Barker's eyes fell, then rose to see Lizzie holding a fresh pint just out of reach.

"So if ye've any more foolishness to speak on his lordship, ye'll have to say it elsewhere, do ye hear me, Tom Barker? And just ye try finding another of
these
within a twelve-league!"

She glared at him until he dropped his gaze again; then she set the tankard down with a slosh.

Far to the rear, oblivious of the little drama, Arthur Pennington rested his elbows on the table and covered a yawn.

"William, much to Bridey's distress, has volunteered to watch in your place," Thorne told the steward. "You're needed closer to home."

"You mean I should be home in bed," Arthur countered. "Aye, and you'd best be snatching some rest yourself. Your young lady will be disappointed if you can't stay on your feet to dance."

Thorne groaned. "I may be
bored
into sleep at this soirée or whatever the deuce it is the Sutherlands are hosting for us. Gwynneth is no more enthusiastic about it than I. She's used to a quiet, country life."

"Aye, but a cloistered one. How will she adapt to being lady of the manor?"

"Well enough, I think. She's no shy violet, despite her piety." Refilling the glasses, Thorne pulled a wry face. "Which is the one thing about her that grates upon me."

Arthur shrugged. "Let her have her piety, it needn't affect your habits. Most women are taught to keep their opinions of men's ways to themselves at any rate--at least 'til they're wed," he said with a wink.

Thorne chuckled. "Not at Saint Mary's, apprarently. You should hear Gwynneth's opinion on wagering."

"I'll pass," Arthur said soberly. "Perhaps you should, too."

"No." Thorne gave him an affectionate smile. "No, my friend. As I see it, the winds are favorable enough. My course is set, and I embark happily on life's journey, my mate at my side through fair weather and foul, for as long as she'll have me."

Arthur regarded him silently, then lifted his glass. "Then bon voyage, my friend and liege...and may God go with you."

In the drawing room of his Covent Garden town house, Radleigh eased aside the chess board with its jade and rose quartz pieces poised in mid-match, and untied the ribbon around a sheaf of vellums.

"Gwynneth's dowry," he said, pride in his voice.

Thorne hesitated, then flattened the sheets on the table, then glanced over the list. Young ewes, beef cattle and dairy cows, oxen and horses appealed to him as a land baron and husbandman. For the Hall itself there was a Boulle cabinet inlaid with tortoiseshell and copper, two Carracci oils, a Cellini vase, a pewter table service for twenty, a full set of Meissen china, and sterling flatware. Then came bed linens, table linens, and tapestries, all either inherited or among Gwynneth's own handiwork, along with lace she'd tatted and blankets she'd woven. For Thorne personally, a gold-hilted rapier in a gem-encrusted scabbard was catalogued, followed by a carved-ivory snuffbox and a sapphire-and-diamond brooch. Halfway down the second page, he encountered a sum of cash to be transferred into his holdings.

"This is more than generous," he said, careful not to show his surprise. Apparently the viscount's finances were in better condition than rumor had it.

Radleigh's gaze sidled to Gwynneth, then back to Thorne. "Has the dispensation come through?"

Thorne kept his game-face; Radleigh knew very well that he'd obtained the
mixtae
religionis
in his last days at Oxford. The charade was for Gwynneth's sake, and he must play along. "It has. Banns are posted. The wedding mass will be a
Missa Contata,
as we haven't enough clergy for a High Mass."

"Well, then!" Radleigh slapped the arms of his chair. "Shall we set the date?"

"August," Thorne said without hesitation, accepting a cup of tea from his unsuspecting fiancé. "Late August. I'll post the banns upon my return."

Radleigh took the cup Gwynneth held out to him and raised it, his broad face beaming. "Then August it is."

* * *

The Sutherlands' London mansion blazed with lights. Plumed horses drew coach after coach into the semicircular brick drive, laughter floating across the greensward as footmen danced attendance on the confections of perfumed silk, satin, taffeta and lace that spilled from the shining black conveyances. Through the open windows drifted chamber music, a prelude to the minuets and quadrilles that would follow a lavish buffet supper.

Caroline Sutherland held court in the in the wide foyer, her husband in the receiving line beside her. Next to Horace Sutherland stood Radleigh, then Gwynneth and Lord Neville, each nodding or bowing according to protocol as a stream of titled folk and wealthy merchants wished the couple well.

"You've done well by the girl," a friend told Caroline later as they watched the dancers from the gallery. "One would never guess she was a convent mouse."

Caroline eyed Gwynneth--radiant in a décolleté apple-green gown trimmed in emerald lace, hair shimmering in a gold filigree chignon studded with tiny emeralds and diamonds, teardrop emeralds adorning her ears and neck, and a large table-cut emerald--the Neville betrothal ring--on one stubby finger. "Still is, I fear. Despite appearances."

"How do you mean?"

"Her first allegiance was to religion, and from what I've seen, it will always be." Caroline's gaze slid to her friend. "A man such as Lord Neville quickly tires of porridge. He'll soon seek heartier fare."

"Caroline!"

"You needn't act so shocked. Look at him. Can't you see it in those extraordinary eyes?"

"See what?"

"Appetites. God's teeth, you can be so obtuse. The man has
appetites
."

Her friend shivered, observing Thorne Neville over her fan. "You make him sound like a ravenous beast."

Caroline smiled. At that moment, the ravenous beast looked up and locked eyes with her. Her fingers tightened on the balustrade.

"Oh, Caroline, he's smiling at us! He cannot be the ogre you make him out to be. You're too fanciful," chided her friend, rapping Caroline's arm with her open fan.

"I, fanciful? Hardly. I never said the man was an ogre, I simply said he has appetites." Caroline's gaze lingered on Lord Neville as Gwynneth reclaimed his attention with a tentative touch on his sleeve.

Her friend tugged at her arm. "Let's go down and join the dancing. You've been out of Horace's company for so long, he's likely fit to be tied."

Caroline's smile thinned. "No doubt his companions are binding him at this very moment."

Her friend giggled. "Sometimes you are as droll as he."

The eyes of her male guests followed her descent, but for once the attention left Caroline cold. Just months ago, Horace would have awaited her at the foot of the stairs, eager and impatient to have her on his arm again. Now he was nowhere in sight.

Hence it happened that as Thorne lost Gwynneth to another eager dance partner, he found himself face to face with his hostess.

* * *

Thorne had formed no opinion of Caroline Sutherland. Radleigh had scarcely introduced them before she was called away to oversee some matter. But her presence had been impossible to ignore. Everyone else literally paled in comparison to the tawny-skinned beauty.

And here she stood before him. She'd ordered a waltz, judging by the hesitant opening strains coming from the gallery. Few English women would have had the nerve to suggest it, much less the finesse to execute it, without fear of censure.

But this woman knew no fear. Thorne could see that in her bearing, and in the depths of her disturbingly intuitive eyes.

She spread the wide skirts of her coral-colored gown in a low curtsey, jet-black eyelashes briefly touching her high cheeks. When she rose, her dark eyes met Thorne's in wordless invitation.

He bowed and extended his arms, keeping his face blank for fear of betraying his fascination. It was a useless ruse, judging by the way his hostess caught her luscious lower lip between her small teeth, if to hide amusement.

Heads turned as they whirled about the floor. Fingers pointed; fans spread below watchful eyes. Usually one to avoid public scenes, Thorne discovered to his amazement and dismay that he didn't give a damn.

Caroline Sutherland's movements flowed, her body agile as a young stag but exuding a feminine sensuality and an exotic fragrance the likes of which Thorne had never encountered. He glanced at the slope of her golden shoulders, a wide expanse that gracefully bore the weight of a magnificent bosom. Observing her hair, he imagined freeing the ebony mass of waves from its pins and threading his fingers through it, wrapping the luxurious length around his growing hardness as she leaned over him...her lush lips rounding and readying, her smoky gaze promising him more than he could possibly endure...

The dance had ended. When, Thorne wondered bewilderedly, had the music? He found his hostess studying his face before he could attempt to disguise his torturous musings...and smiling.

She knew. God help him, she knew.

* * *

Near midnight, Tom Barker stumbled out of Duncan's alehouse and headed for home. He fumbled in his pocket for the flask of whiskey, hoping to rinse the sour taste of ale from his furred tongue, but then squinted up at the full moon and stopped in his tracks, swaying.

"'Tis a night for beasties on the prowl," he muttered. Leaning back, he let go a howl that ended in a hacking cough. He spat with remarkable accuracy at the horseshoe on the smithy's door. Chuckling, he staggered past the tanner's, the miller's, the mercantile, and the baker's shop. He was just beyond the cobbler's shed when he heard footsteps.

He whirled about, whiskey flask in hand.

The Wycliffe road lay empty and pale under the moon, a ragged lace of tree shadows edging one side, the shops between Barker and the alehouse lining the other. He frowned at the occasional corridor between buildings, his myopic eyes searching each shadowy break but detecting nothing. All he heard, besides a chorus of tree frogs and insects, was the distant hoot of an owl.

Moving on down the rutted road, he bolstered his courage by singing a tune his old mother often warbled about a lover's moon. He stumbled now and then, twice falling down only to pick himself up and go on. The cottage he and his mother shared was a good sixteen furlongs from the village, but he'd made the trek many a night before, and every bit as drunk.

He'd gone several paces before he heard the footsteps again. He lurched to a stop, his song trailing off into wary silence, and listened.

Nothing.

Gathering what bravado he possessed, he cupped his hands at his mouth and bellowed, "See here, now, don't go a-messing with ol' Tom Barker--leastways, not if ye know what's good for ye! I be a good twenty-stone, and many's the man what wished he'd never crossed me. Some even lived to tell it!"

The words had scarcely left his mouth when he heard a noise directly behind him.

Hands of steel gripped his throat.

He dropped the flask and clawed at the vise-like constriction, but in his drunken state was helpless against such strength. He managed to pull his dirk from his breechwaist, only to have it struck from his hand by his attacker's knee. With sinking heart and hopes, he gagged and gasped, as his captor, like a cat playing with a mouse, cut off all but a tiny influx of precious air. Through the dull roar in his ears, Barker heard a voice like a low growl.

"You've loosed your tongue once too often, Tommy Barker, spending your ill-earned coin in the alehouse and bragging to anyone who'll listen that there's more whence it came. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, old boy, but your spending days are over."

Barker's only reply was a ghastly gurgle as the iron grip tightened, sealing off his windpipe.

Moments later he was released with a shove, his limp body falling into the road atop his precious flask, his bulging eyes staring blankly at the lover's moon.

* * *

Gwynneth smiled up at the moon. "What a beautiful evening it has been. The Sutherlands are such kind people."

Thorne said nothing as he helped her into the coach and climbed up to sit beside her.

"Horace seems a bit distant, but Caroline helped me with all my fittings and the wedding preparations. She is like a sister."

Radleigh poked his head in the doorway. "'Tis too fair a night to be riding in here." He winked at Thorne. "The fresh air will do me good."

Thorne promptly rose to take the empty seat, but Gwynneth laid a gloved hand on his sleeve. "You needn't move," she said softly.

Surprised, he reclaimed the space beside her with some misgiving. Radleigh couldn't have chosen a worse night to leave them alone.

"You were a smashing success," Thorne told her, hoping to change the direction his thoughts kept taking. "You stole the hearts of every man there, young and old."

Gwynneth's pale brow furrowed. "Perhaps I was too merry."

"You were charming." He squeezed her hand.

He should have drunk more of the costly spirits the Sutherlands had served. Perhaps sleep would come then, unlike last night. And perhaps in sleep he could forget the Sutherland vixen. Forget her dark eyes, her velvet voice, her voluptuous form and golden skin. Forget her supple movements, so matched to his own that the two of them might have been coupling instead of dancing. Forget...forget? Who was he trying to fool?
She will haunt me in my dreams, God help me.
It galled him to be so affected. Lust was a familiar antagonist, but he could not tolerate obsession. He despised such weakness in a man.

And she had known. He had a foreboding feeling that, for a woman like Caroline Sutherland, knowledge was power.

"The hour is late, I should be more tired," Gwynneth was saying. "How did you sleep last night?"

He tried to gather his thoughts. "I'm always restless the first night in a strange bed." He smiled an apology--far less than he'd owe her if she knew how he'd tossed and turned all night, tormented by the knowledge that she was just two rooms away in her bed.

"I nearly knocked upon your door last night."

And now you knock the breath out of me! Sweet Christ.

"Sleep wouldn't come," she was explaining. "And knowing that Father had a bottle of brandy put in your room yesterday, I thought I might try some...I...I've heard it brings on slumber," she finished, faltering under Thorne's intent stare.

Why did her parted lips seem fuller, redder, in the moonlight? Were her nether lips, the ones no man had ever seen between her lily-white thighs, swelling and parting as well, preparing to receive him? Liquid fire surged through Thorne's loins, and under fortuitous cover of his waistcoat he hardened so fast it alarmed him. He should insist on trading places with Radleigh, indeed should signal the driver to stop this very instant.

Gwynneth offered no resistance as Thorne gathered her to him and tipped her chin upward. Gazing at him with a charming mixture of reluctance and longing, she whispered, "Are you going to kiss me now?"