by Deborah Hale
He made the calamity of losing her fortune sound almost appealing. Except that it would also mean the loss of her hard-won independence. Felicity could not give that up.
“And what if I told you the matter of my inability to breed was all a mistake and that I was quite capable of bearing children after all?”
The instant those words left her lips, Felicity wished she could take them back. The question had seemed to ask itself against her will. “Would that make any difference to you?”
She held her breath as she listened for Thorn’s answer. If only it did not matter so much to her…
“I wish I could assure you otherwise, my dear.” His arm tightened around her for an instant, then he drew it back to grasp the reins more securely. “But I’m afraid that would make a difference.”
To Felicity, it felt as though her heart had fallen beneath the carriage wheels and been ground into the unyielding surface of the road.
It was all well and good for Thorn to preach about the folly of keeping secrets, as if her conscience didn’t trouble her enough already. Even putting aside the whole distasteful question of fortune, she could never again wed a man who valued her only as a broodmare on whom to sire offspring.
Not even if his offspring was growing in her womb that very moment.
He had hurt her.
Not that it was easy to tell with Felicity, for she didn’t pout or pine. Instead she donned a mask of mocking amusement, keeping up a steady banter about their mutual acquaintances in Bath. If he hadn’t known better, Thorn might have thought he was conversing with Weston St. Just.
Early in the afternoon, they had stopped in Wolverhampton to tend the horses, after which Mr. Hixon and the young footman had resumed their posts, looking somewhat better for their improvised nap. Thorn and Felicity had returned to the relative comfort and quiet of the carriage box for the final leg of their journey to Trentwell.
Thorn had started to relate another story about the escapades of he, Merritt, Rosemary and Ivy during their summers at Barnhill, but Felicity had been quick to divert him with talk about Bath.
He could not escape the sense that she was pushing him back to arms’ length, after having made the mistake of allowing him to get too close.
The subtle rebuff stung him at first, even as he found himself laughing at her tart quips.
Gradually, however, he began to pay less heed to her words, other than to nod or chuckle when Felicity appeared to expect it. Instead, he drank in the sparkle of her eyes and the rich, dark lustre of her hair. The way she held her head when she spoke and the graceful manner in which she moved her hands to emphasize what she was saying.
Each of these touched him with a fond familiarity that had grown over the weeks since they’d begun keeping company. They also touched him with a sweet sadness when he realized they might soon be nothing but an elusive recollection, slipping from his memory the harder he tried to hold them.
A week ago, her present performance might have fooled him. But the time and confidences they had shared since setting out on this journey had given him fresh insight. What he’d said, about her barrenness making a difference, had wounded her. Now she was creating a diversion to cover her retreat. She could not risk allowing him close enough to strike another blow.
“Was I wrong to tell you the truth?” Thorn wanted to protest.
Another man might have reassured her with a diplomatic evasion or an outright lie. He had never mastered the knack of deception. Besides, he cared for Felicity too much to offer her anything but the truth.
He wanted children of his own. Not as dynastic pawns or to carry on the family name, but to raise and to love. To infuse his practical, workaday life with their unique wonder.
The way his sisters had done in their younger years, only better. For this time he would embrace his responsibility for them from the moment they were born, and even before, rather than having it thrust upon him. He would be ready to nurture and guide them as they needed, not preoccupied with trying to grow up himself.
If it were possible to barter Felicity’s fortune for the chance to have children with her, Thorn knew he would do it without a second thought. Unfortunately, some things in life were too precious to be purchased.
And this was one of them.
“I thought it a most diverting story.” Felicity’s voice broke in on Thorn’s musings. “Perhaps I told it badly.”
“Not at all.” Thorn struggled to recall what she’d been talking about. “You always have a witty way of putting things.”
“One would never know it from the grief-stricken look on your face.” The set of her features and her airy tone declared she was only teasing him, yet a trace of tightness around her eyes suggested something more.
Thorn shrugged. “I have not your flair for masking my true feelings, my dear.”
“Masking?” Her eyes widened, while her smile stretched taut. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.” Thorn hunched forward until his elbows rested on his knees. “Though perhaps it’s impolitic of me to mention it. I wouldn’t say I felt grief-stricken. Regretful, perhaps.”
“Ah, regrets.” Felicity caught her bewitching lower lip between her teeth for an instant. And for that instant her mask crumbled like an eggshell and fell away. “Who of us doesn’t have those?”
“Do you regret taking up with a tiresome, fortuneless fellow who refuses to keep a permissible distance and can’t recognize when a transient affair has gone on too long?”
Without recrimination, he repeated the sharply barbed words she had flung at him the previous night as a curious sort of peace offering.
She made a valiant effort to repair her mask and slip it into place again. Perhaps his soft steady stare told her it was no use, that he’d only see past it anyway.
“I will never regret what we have shared, Thorn.” Felicity reached forward to rest her fingers over his folded hand. “I do regret what I said to you last night. And I regret very much if I’ve given the impression that I don’t want to be with you anymore.”
Her hand closed over his in a tremulous caress and by some unlikely intuition Thorn knew that the truth came as hard to her as deception came to him. “I wouldn’t blame you for having regrets about taking up with a spoiled heiress too selfish to care about anyone’s feelings but her own.”
“Not selfish.” Thorn shook his head. “Self-protective, perhaps.”
“Do you think so?” She gazed at him with a soft, vulnerable look that made Thorn ache to gather her into his arms. “I suppose it is possible. From as far back as I can remember, I have felt the need to protect myself.”
Her voice fell to a whisper, as if the truth of what she was saying frightened her. “Often from those closest to me.”
“Never from me, Felicity.”
Abruptly she drew back from him, releasing a brief tinkle of laughter that reminded Thorn of winter wind through tree branches laden with icicles.
“You most of all, Thorn Greenwood. You understand me too well, which makes you harder to safeguard against. And you persist in making me care about you more with each passing day.”
Never had he believed it with the certainty that now took root in his heart. The realization rocked Thorn backward and left him speechless.
“I don’t regret what we have shared.” Felicity spoke the words as if they both elated and terrified her. “But I fear I may come to regret it very much if I’m not careful.”
Before Thorn could summon any words of reassurance, the carriage slowed and took a sharp turn to the right.
“That will be the road to Trentwell.” With an obvious effort, Felicity once again donned the poised, charming demeanor of Lady Lyte. “Another half hour should see us there, I believe.”
She stared out the window, perhaps to distract or collect herself. “See that wood? It’s part of Cannock Chase. Percy used to hunt there often.”
Thorn cast an absent glance toward the broad expanse o
f forest. He tried to recall a remark Weston St. Just had made shortly after introducing him to Felicity. Something about her husband having been killed while riding…or hunting. Had Percy Lyte died here at Cannock Chase?
“I’m so looking forward to sleeping in my own bed tonight.” Felicity stretched and yawned. “Not to mention enjoying all the other amenities of a well-run household.”
“Indeed.” Thorn had no illusions that the most luxurious bed in the kingdom would afford him the peaceful hours of rest he’d savored last night at that little inn on the outskirts of Gloucester.
Unless he could once again hold Felicity in his arms—which didn’t seem likely.
“You and your sister are welcome to stay on for a day or two before you head back to Bath.” Felicity did not take her eyes off Cannock Chase as she tendered this gracious, but stilted, invitation. “And you’re welcome to take your choice of rigs from the coach house for your journey.”
She wanted to be rid of him, and the sooner the better. Thorn strove to keep in mind Felicity’s vulnerable admission of only a few moments ago—that she needed to protect herself from her growing affection for him.
Faced with the aloof beauty who spoke in so offhand a manner of their imminent parting, he found it easier to believe she’d simply grown tired of his company.
“Will you and your nephew not be returning to Bath, as well?” he asked. “It would save a great deal of bother if we all travel together.”
Felicity’s nose wrinkled in a look of distaste. “I fear that might prove impossibly awkward. Besides, there isn’t much left of the Season. I believe I’ll remain at Trentwell.”
Clearly, she didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into him at Sydney Gardens or the Upper Assembly Rooms in the coming weeks.
Though he lacked Felicity’s skill at acting indifferent, Thorn made an effort not to let his dismay show. “In that case, if we find Ivy and your nephew at Trentwell, I believe it would be best for all concerned if she and I leave at once. We could probably get as far on our way as Wolverhampton before nightfall.”
Was it only his wishful fancy, or did Felicity’s face suddenly turn pale?
Thorn felt compelled to explain. “Given the way they’ve eluded us time and again, I wouldn’t put it past that pair to steal away from Trentwell during the night, if Ivy and I stayed on.”
“I see your point.”
“Thank you for the offer of a carriage.” In truth it would gall him beyond bearing to accept her charity. “But I’d prefer to hire the coach Ivy and Oliver have been using. We may not return to Bath, either, but head straight home to Lathbury. Ivy would probably be better off under Rosemary’s supervision, and there’s less apt to be gossip in Bath if she doesn’t return. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”
“Very sensible of you.” Felicity’s expression softened. “As always.”
Though he knew she’d meant it kindly, Thorn still flinched. Part of him longed to abandon sensibility and respectability and all those other tedious virtues. But did he dare risk becoming like his father?
Never.
“It isn’t very sensible to talk as if our finding Ivy and Oliver at Trentwell is a foregone conclusion.” Thorn knew he sounded stern and pedantic, but he didn’t care. He’d show Lady Lyte sensible…with a vengeance. “We should plan some contingency in case they never arrived or have been and gone again.”
Deep in his heart, a most preposterous bud of hope quickened. If he and Felicity were forced to continue with their journey, perhaps all the obstacles that stood between them would magically fall by the wayside with each mile they traveled north.
“That’s not possible.” Felicity’s words echoed the harsh verdict of Thorn’s own reason. Then he realized she was talking about Ivy and Oliver. “They must be there. Oliver would never pass so close to Trentwell without stopping. I expect they’re as anxious for proper rest and meals as we are. More, perhaps, if they’ve been traveling at odd hours and lodging at only the cheapest inns.”
“I hope you’re right,” Thorn lied.
For all the inconvenience, discomfort and turmoil of the past three days, he would rather face many more days of the same than bid goodbye to Felicity and ride out of her life forever.
Oliver Armitage was a clever chap. If he had any inkling that he and Ivy were being pursued, as surely he must, his aunt’s estate would be the last place he’d risk stopping.
So Thorn told himself as he glimpsed a magnificent silvery-gray mansion off in the distance, nestled among massive spreading oaks. The carriage slowed even more, turning onto a long broad lane with a row of tall arching elms standing sentinel on either side.
No wonder Sir Percy Lyte had needed to marry one of the wealthiest heiresses in the country to keep this place up, Thorn acknowledged as he surveyed the impeccably kept grounds and the marble swan fountain in the forecourt. Revenues from the estate farm and other such income would barely make a dent in Trentwell’s ruinous maintenance.
As the carriage rolled to a gentle halt before the stately eight-columned portico that fronted the vast house, Thorn realized that his jaw had gone slack, permitting his mouth to gape open.
He shut it with such savage force, his teeth rattled.
A middle-aged footman in full wig and livery pulled the carriage door open. “Lady Lyte, what a pleasant surprise, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Dunstan.” Felicity dismissed the servant’s greeting with the graceful flutter of one gloved hand. “Tell me, have you seen anything of my nephew in the past day or so?”
No. No. No! The word beat an insistent tattoo inside Thorn’s skull.
Even with the vast edifice of Trentwell now added to the other barriers between himself and Felicity, he clung to the ridiculous illusion that a few more days in her company might make a difference.
“Master Oliver?” the footman exclaimed in a hearty tone that rang in Thorn’s ears like the death knell of his foolish hopes. “Why, he arrived just this morning with his young lady, ma’am. I believe the pair of them are taking a stroll ’round the garden with Master Rupert at the moment.”
“How fortunate,” replied Felicity as the footman helped her down from the carriage box. “We’ve been most anxious to catch up with them.”
A plaintive tightness in her voice belied her careless declaration. Or perhaps Thorn conjured it up out of the dark choking chasm inside his own heart.
Without waiting for any assistance from Lady Lyte’s servants, he scrambled down from the carriage and strode over to the fine marble fountain. There he pretended to inspect the trio of exquisitely carved swans which spewed water from their bills in graceful arcs.
Unlike Felicity, he needed some time and effort to fabricate a mask of cheerful indifference with which to cover his naked despair.
Chapter Thirteen
For a moment the footman’s words refused to make sense to Felicity. She had fully expected to find Oliver and Ivy here. She had cautioned herself repeatedly to distance herself from Thorn Greenwood, while she still had some choice in the matter.
All the same, the news that her nephew and Thorn’s sister were presently strolling the grounds of Trentwell brought her neither the satisfaction nor the relief she’d hoped.
“Notify me the moment Master Oliver and Miss Greenwood return to the house, Dunstan. And make sure the stable master knows my nephew is not to take any of the horses without my permission.”
“Not even the hired team he came with, ma’am?”
“Especially not them.” Felicity glanced around for Thorn only to find him contemplating the swan fountain. “Make certain I’m advised if Master Oliver tries to do anything of the sort.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Dunstan hustled off to carry out her orders.
“Lady Lyte, ma’am,” Ned called down from the boot of the carriage, “shall I fetch your luggage in?”
A sharp retort sprang to Felicity’s lips. Of course her luggage should go in. Even if she hadn’t found Oliver at Tr
entwell, she would not have set out after him until she’d enjoyed at least two good meals and one decent night’s sleep.
Before Felicity could say anything, the young footman smothered a yawn.
Words of Thorn’s resonated in her mind as clearly as if he’d stood beside her and repeated them.
“Just because they’re your servants doesn’t mean they deserve no consideration.”
And later, speaking of Merritt Temple. “His wife probably thought she had the right to order him around like a servant.”
Felicity glanced up to find Ned waiting patiently for his orders.
“I would like my valise brought in, thank you,” she said. “Once that’s done, you and Mr. Hixon must hie yourselves off to the kitchen and tell Cook I want her to prepare you a rattling good tea.”
Over the roof of the carriage, the coachman and footman exchanged broad grins.
“Very good, ma’am,” they answered in chorus.
With a nod of acknowledgement, Felicity turned away from the carriage and sauntered over to the fountain with carefully cultivated poise.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” She kept her eyes trained on the three swans at the center of the fountain. “Percy’s great-grandfather brought some famous sculptor all the way from Italy to carve them.”
“Skilfully done, indeed,” Thorn agreed, though in a somewhat absent tone, as if his thoughts were otherwise occupied.
An urge to capture his full attention took hold of Felicity, though she scolded herself that it was pointless.
“The sculptor took long enough.” She forced a bright, animated tone, quite at odds with what she felt. “He stayed and stayed until Percy’s grandfather threatened not to pay him, saying the fellow had received free bed and board long enough to equal a fat fee for his services. At least that’s the story I was told when I first came to Trentwell.”
She couldn’t resist a brief glance to see if Thorn was paying any attention to her. Her spirits leapt when she caught his steadfast gaze upon her.
