The Heart Denied

by Wulf, Linda Anne

  “Aye, but not to the tune of forty pounds per annum. For a papist stipend, at that.” Arthur shook his head. “And once you’ve joined Radleigh’s family, Parliament may well view you as a subversive-”

  “Bollocks. Radleigh’s family is joining mine, and my family has been allied with the Anglican Church since its inception. What my wife does upon her knees is of no interest to me, much less to His Majesty.” Arthur pressed his lips together, and Thorne held back a smile. “There, that was rather badly worded—but we digress. I was about to say that Gwynneth’s suggestion is no surprise to me. She’s lived among devoted Roman Catholics for ten years now, following their rituals and saying their prayers-”

  “And wishing to take their vows.”

  “Yes, but now she wishes to be my wife.”

  “She’s trading her dream for that, M’lord, and it will take much love to balance the scales.”

  “Bloody hell.” Scowling, Thorne pushed his trestle bench back from the table. “Why the devil do you persist in this? I’m quite fond of the lady, Arthur. I want to be with her, protect her. I want her to bear my children. And I believe with all my heart—my head as well—that those things constitute a firm foundation for marriage.” He gulped down some of his ale and set the tankard down hard, unable to conceal his wounded pride. “I’d hoped for your blessing before now, but I see you still have your doubts.”

  Arthur’s brief smile did not patronize. “You have my blessing, M’lord, if you truly want it. As for my doubts” —he touched his tankard to Thorne’s— “here’s hoping you’ll prove me wrong.”

  EIGHT

  “There it is, Caroline! There is Wycliffe Hall. Oh, and look! There, alongside the road!”

  Caroline leaned forward to look out the coach window, but saw nothing to warrant squealing like a peasant.

  “The roses…oh, Caroline, the roses!” Gwynneth clutched at the curtain. “I smelled them, but I thought it must be my imagination. ‘Tis the surprise he promised me. There must be thousands of them!”

  “Well, hundreds, at any rate.” Caroline hoped her disparaging sniff passed for a sampling of the floral perfume pervading the coach interior. For her, the profusion of pink, red, yellow and white blossoms lining the drystone wall only served as a bitter reminder that Horace used to weekly send her enough roses to fill every vase in their home.

  “‘Tis rather like a bridal path, isn’t it?” Gwynneth clasped her lace-gloved hands under her chin and inhaled with the serene rapture of a yogin.

  Caroline fought an urge to slap her. “A thoughtful man, your Lord Neville.” And if there is any justice in the world, one of those bloody bees will fly in here and sting your lily-white skin right through those pastel silks.

  “He is very considerate,” Gwynneth allowed with a blush. “And quite romantic, I think.”

  Caroline dug her nails into her palm. “I do hope my presence won’t foil his romantic bent,” she said smoothly.

  “Oh, Caroline, don’t be absurd!” Gwynneth’s laugh sounded sweetly indulgent. “I know his lordship will want you here.”

  Yes…here and anywhere else he might have me! Caroline feigned an apprehensive smile. “I hope so, Gwynneth. I truly hope so.”

  *

  Thorne and Arthur watched two coaches and three drays tarpaulined in oiled canvas roll to a stop. As footmen and maids streamed down the steps of the terraced lawn to take numerous trunks and bags, William the kitchen-boy and young Henry unhitched the horses to lead them in pairs to the beck. Thorne waved Radleigh’s coachman aside to open the door himself.

  “Thank God. My bones have turned to powder.” The portly man heaved a sigh as his future son-in-law helped him down with a chuckle.

  “Come now, Radleigh, we’ve filled in ruts and potholes nearly all the way to Northampton—what more could you ask?”

  “Paving,” Radleigh grumbled, his breath reeking of brandy fumes. “The Romans weren’t entirely barbaric, you know. Just wait ‘til you’re my age, Neville, and see how well you travel these bloody country roads.”

  Thorne clapped a hand over a big shoulder. “A bath and a cool mug await you, my friend, but first I must greet my bride.”

  Gwynneth nearly melted into his embrace, crying out softly, “Oh, my lord, the roses, they’re beautiful! Where did you get them, and however did you plant so many?”

  He smiled down at her, his loins stirring at the worship in her eyes; his costly gift had paid off. “They came from the finest hothouses in London, along with a team of horti-” he broke off, his attention suddenly riveted beyond Gwynneth, his pulse slowing to an erratic thud. The extra coach. Of course. Monogrammed for Sutherland, not Stowington. “-culturists,” he finished, his mouth snapping shut.

  Caroline stepped down with queenly grace, her gloved hand sliding off the footman’s arm as she reached the ground and smiled, first at Gwynneth with a conspirator’s air, then at Thorne with perfect aplomb.

  Gwynneth looked gleeful. “Are you surprised, my lord?”

  “Utterly,” he muttered, extending his hand. Caroline’s hand slid into it as she curtseyed, her exotic scent wafting upward and bringing with it a keen recall of the waltz they’d shared. Thorne’s tongue knotted along with his stomach.

  “Caroline feared she mightn’t be welcome at Wycliffe Hall,” Gwynneth scoffed.

  “Nonsense, you are quite welcome,” Thorne said to Caroline. “My home’s ambiance can only be enriched by your presence.”

  A smile played about Caroine’s lips. “You are as gracious a man as Gwynneth claims, my lord, but your home isn’t likely to be improved upon in any fashion by my presence.” Your person, however, her eyes told him, might benefit immensely.

  “We’ve brought Ashby, Caroline’s maid,” Gwynneth was saying, nodding toward a young woman William was helping down from the driver’s seat. “Caroline has agreed to share her with me.”

  Thorne drew Gwynneth’s arm through his. “But I’ve taken the liberty of appointing a lady’s maid for you. She’s waited upon you before. Do you remember Combs?”

  “Yes, she seemed quite capable,” Gwynneth recalled as they lagged behind the others, Radleigh following Jennings to the library and its well-stocked liquor cabinet, Dame Carswell leading Caroline and Ashby on up the stairs.

  “I’m glad you agree. I’ve sent her ahead to your chambers, where you can begin a life of leisure by instructing her in the matter of unpacking your trunks.”

  Gwynneth sighed. “I think you will be a perfect husband.”

  “Perfect?” Smiling ruefully, Thorne shook his head. “Harbor no such delusion, dear lady. I shall, however, try my best to be the husband you deserve.”

  Her answering smile was so sweetly radiant that after a moment Thorne muttered, “Hang convention!” and leaned down to steal a kiss. As her lips lingered willingly under his, he drew away. “Go,” he said gruffly, “while you can.”

  Laughing, Gwynneth ran up the steps. Thorne’s smile felt more like a grimace as his loins tightened again. Dear God, get this interminable wedding behind us.

  Turning from the newel post, he saw his housekeeper paused at the mouth of the west hall, her stony gaze upon the stairs where Gwynneth had just disappeared from view.

  “Buck up, Carswell.” A hint of warning lurked behind his teasing tone. “Yonder goes your new mistress.”

  *

  “Am I late?”

  Gwynneth’s question trailed away as she paused in the open doorway of the dining room, her eye skimming the long table for the first time from a viewpoint as lady of the house. The service of china, crystal and ivory-handled sterling gleamed in the halo of tall candelabras, every precious piece set out with faultless precision on cream-colored Belfast linen.

  Across the room, Thorne looked up from an aperitif.

  “Late, my lady?” Setting his glass on the mantel, he turned his back on Radleigh and Caroline to approach Gwynneth. “Your father might complain,” he murmured as he took her hand, “but the devil take
me if I care. You’re a vision to behold, and well worth the wait.”

  Gwynneth could hardly question his sincerity. The looking glass in her chambers had revealed a beauty rendered almost ethereal by her shoulder-baring frock, a creation of pale-pink cabbage roses on a background of ivory covered by a gauzy overskirt. But oh, how Sister Theresa Bernard would frown at the décolleté neckline, and especially the display of plump bosom it offered to Thorne’s appreciative glance.

  “Sweet,” Caroline murmured as she joined the couple, her eyes narrowing.

  Radleigh followed, strutting like a rooster. “Thorne, I must congratulate you on your choice of lady’s maid for my daughter. What a transformation!”

  Thorne shook his head, his eyes still on his fiancé. “Radleigh, your daughter would be a beauty even in rags.”

  Gwynneth touched Thorne’s arm as he took his seat next to her, the heat in her cheeks rivaling the slow fire that banished all tendrils of fog daring to enter the open windows. “I’ve told Caroline the tragic story of your Aunt Agnes,” she said hastily. “Will you show us inside the tower?”

  Hesitating, Thorne shrugged. “Very well, but I must warn you and Mistress Sutherland that nothing save for spiders and bats has entered the place for decades.”

  “My lord?” Caroline spoke up in a velvet voice.

  “Ma’am?” was Thorne’s polite reply.

  She smiled. “Not being particularly bound by convention, I should be pleased if you would call me by my Christian name.”

  “If you insist, ma’am.” Looking down at his plate, Thorne picked up his spoon.

  While Caroline spooned the consommé as casually as their host did, Gwynneth looked from friend to fiancé with a frown. Only Radleigh seemed unaware of Thorne’s subtle refusal to grant Caroline first-name privilege.

  *

  Halfway through supper, Jennings announced a caller. Thorne put down his napkin and followed the head-footman to the great hall, but passed him as he recognized the man who’d just doffed his hat to expose an impossibly curly mass of bright-red hair.

  “Townsend!” Thorne grabbed his hand and pumped it delightedly.

  His visitor grinned. “Good God, Neville, I’ve never seen you looking so hale and hearty, the country quite agrees with you!” Richard Townsend handed his cloak and tricorne to Jennings. “Your man tells me I’ve interrupted supper.”

  “We’ve just finished,” Thorne assured him, shooting Jennings a jaundiced look.

  “Well, I should at least apologize for showing up five days too soon.”

  Thorne clapped him on the shoulder. “Townsend, you’d be welcome here no matter how early. My bride-to-be has just arrived this afternoon. Leave your bag for Jennings, and come meet my guests.”

  Thorne first introduced his friend to Radleigh. Presented to Gwynneth, Townsend bowed and pledged his undying loyalty. As he turned to Caroline, his hazel eyes brightened. “We’ve met before, ma’am, though I can’t for the life of me remember where.”

  “Surely not, sir.” Caroline looked at him from under her long eyelashes. “‘Tis not likely I’d forget.”

  Thorne clenched his jaw as Townsend’s face turned scarlet. Radleigh chuckled.

  Gwynneth smiled. “Another heart won, Caroline.”

  “The first today, then,” Caroline murmured, and Thorne suddenly felt Gwynneth’s eyes on him, taking a long, speculative look at the only man who seemed invulnerable to her friend’s considerable charms.

  NINE

  “The stable master?” Caroline scoffed, every nerve in her body suddenly on edge.

  “Yes. Tobias—or I should say Hobbs, could not take his eyes off you.” Gwynneth sounded oddly vexed.

  Caroline kept her eyes on the root-ridden path on the ridge above Beck’s Hollow. “I didn’t notice,” she said with a shrug. “I’m not in the habit of ogling strange men, particularly stablemen, though the one time I did glance his way he seemed quite attentive to you.” She turned her head to see Gwynneth’s simpering smile.

  “Don’t be silly. He’s merely protective of me. I’m to be his master’s wife, after all.”

  Envy pierced Caroline in the gut. “Yes, I’d nearly forgotten,” she lied. “The master’s wife. It sounds so…submissive.”

  “I wish you hadn’t said that. Oh, Caroline, I think I shall go mad.”

  Slowing their pace, Caroline glanced at Townsend and Lord Neville, yards ahead and deep in conversation. “Whatever do you mean?” she said in a low voice.

  “I cannot get Sister Theresa Bernard’s warning out of my head.”

  Caroline reined in Bartholomew. “What warning?”

  Gwynneth drew Abigail alongside the gelding and leaned toward Caroline. “That many men spill their seed, not for procreation as God intended, but”—she broke off with a gulp—“for pleasure.”

  Caroline arched her brow. “And how would she know?”

  “Is it true? You’re married, and surely you hear tales from other wives. Tell me.”

  “And what if it is?” Caroline hedged, her heart beating faster. “Did your Sister Theresa Bernard say what might come of such pleasure?”

  “Don’t you know? Oh, Caroline, we are daughters of Eve, hence vulnerable to temptation. But if we allow a man to touch us in any way that is unnecessary for the sowing of his seed—or worse yet, allow ourselves to feel pleasure at a man’s hands-” Gwynneth lowered her gaze, her gloved fists twisting the reins.

  “What then?” Caroline prompted, then held her breath.

  Gwynneth raised wide, tearful eyes. “Then we shall burn for all eternity in the fires of hell,” she whispered tautly, “where Satan will take his own selfish pleasure with us, and debase us in ways beyond imagining.”

  Caroline fought off a hysterical peal of laughter. “And you believe that?”

  “Beyond a doubt. Sister Theresa Bernard is as near to God as a person can be, and knows such things. Oh, Caroline, do you think Lord Neville is one of those men? I know he wants children…but do you think he seeks carnal pleasure in a wife?”

  “I think,” Caroline said cautiously, “that Lord Neville will respect your feelings.” And seek his pleasure elsewhere.

  “I hope so.” Gwynneth’s pale mouth trembled. “A kiss is all the satisfaction I shall ever need from my husband.”

  Caroline squelched her bubbling mirth with a coughing spell. When Gwynneth regained her own composure, the two women urged their mounts onward, a thrill of excitement coursing Caroline’s spine as they approached the men riding ahead.

  Lord Neville was a handsome, vigorous man—and, if their waltz together was any indication, a hot-blooded one as well. Wedding or no wedding, he would surely take a lover.

  And how very convenient should that lover happen to be a frequent visitor in his own home.

  *

  Slipping the well-oiled bolt at the west entry, Caroline stepped into the unfamiliar nighttime landscape of Wycliffe Hall.

  Ghostly tendrils of mist floated by as the clouds thinned under a waning moon. An owl hooted above the raucous chant of insects, while something splashed in the beck. Caroline’s shiver had little to do with the clammy chill, as she’d fastened her wool cardinal over her shift and wrapper the moment she decided upon her reckless venture.

  Treading carefully to avoid the dung heaps she’d spotted from the lane that afternoon, she hissed an expletive as a wooden heel rocked on uneven terrain. A horse whinnied inside the low building. Flattening herself against the wall, Caroline crept alongside the rough fieldstone until she reached the doorway, then peered inside. Surely that lantern wasn’t burning unattended. Fearing she’d lose her nerve, she slipped inside and latched the door behind her, then on second thought unlatched it in case a speedy exit proved necessary.

  A horse nickered. Recognizing Bartholomew in the dimness, Caroline stroked his muzzle and soothed him with soft words.

  “Who’s there?”

  She whirled around to see Tobias Hobbs standing in the shadows
of a narrow passageway.

  “You,” he said, his upper lip curling.

  She stepped toward him, but stopped short as he spat on the straw-strewn floor. She gathered her cardinal protectively about her.

  Hobbs approached her, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “A trifle far from home, aren’t you, even for a woman on the prowl? Surely you’re not here for my company. Though I’d bloody-well serve better than old Horace—who was conspicuously absent from your riding party this morning.”

  “Horace will join us on Friday,” Caroline said, gritting her teeth. “As if ‘tis any of your concern.”

  “Pity.” Hobbs’ voice was like drawn butter. “Who’ll warm your bed ‘til then? Five nights is a lifetime for a bitch in permanent heat.” He smiled as he heard her gasp, his glittering gaze taking her in from head to toe. “Not to fret, love, you can’t help what you are any more than I can. We are Cornelia Hobbs’ children, after all, a wanton herself.” He eyed Caroline’s bosom, which had begun to heave. “Remember, too,” he said huskily, “we are siblings only by half, so we shouldn’t be entirely condemned for sharing a bed. And that little blond slip of a maid you have—Ashby, is it?—would be more than welcome to join-”

  A choked sound escaped Caroline as she lunged for him through a red haze of rage, but her fist struck his face so hard she felt a shock go up her arm. The roar inside her head died away. Feeling something warm dribble down her fingers, she stared in mute fascination at the blood on her hand.

  *

  Lying in the straw, Hobbs felt his jaw go numb. A coppery taste filled his mouth. As his eyes focused, he saw Caroline retreating, massaging her knuckles. He spat blood and charged to his feet.

  In three long strides was upon her. He swatted the hood off her head and grabbed a hank of hair.

  She cried out. He clamped a hand over her mouth; she promptly sank her teeth into it.

  “God rot you, you cock-teasing bitch,” he snarled, not daring to shout with Henry Pitts sleeping nearby. He shoved Caroline backward.