Книга - Lady Lyte’s Little Secret

Lady Lyte's Little Secret
Deborah Hale


Felicity Lyte Was In a QuandaryHow could she tell her cherished paramour of his impending fatherhood? Hawthorn Greenwood, despite his straitened circumstances, would surely make a responsible, honorable offer of mariage–which Felicity could never accept. For she would only wed him in truebound love–or not at all!Thorn Greenwood had thought to but share an idyllic Season with Lady Lyte–and instead found his soul's partner. But Felicity had abruptly ended their liaison. Did she think him a fortune hunter? A rank falsehood that, for the only wealth he sought was the bounty of her love!







“Take one step, and I’ll toss your clothes on the fire!”

“What’s gotten into you, woman?” A grimace of pain twisted Thorn’s features as he lurched to his feet. “You’re not my mother, for pity’s sake. You don’t even want to be my mistress anymore. So leave off trying to coddle me.”

He tried to take the threatened step, but the strength of his legs clearly failed to match the strength of his will. He staggered toward Felicity, who mustered all her strength to push him back onto his bed. At the last instant, his hand closed around her wrist and pulled her down on top of him.

The indignation she tried to summon melted like summer hail.

A bewildering sense of completeness stole over her as the fleet skip of her heart tangled with the strong, swift beat of Thorn’s until it became one thrilling, intricate rhythm…!


Praise for bestselling author DEBORAH HALE’s latest titles

Whitefeather’s Woman

“This book is yet another success for Deborah Hale.

It aims for the heart and doesn’t miss.”

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The Wedding Wager

“…this delightful, well-paced historical

will leave readers smiling and satisfied.”

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A Gentleman of Substance

“This exceptional Regency-era romance

includes all the best aspects of that genre….

Deborah Hale has outdone herself…”

—Romantic Times

#640 THE FORBIDDEN BRIDE

Cheryl Reavis

#641 DRAGON’S DAUGHTER

Catherine Archer

#642 HALLIE’S HERO

Nicole Foster




Lady Lyte’s Little Secret

Deborah Hale







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Available from Harlequin Historicals and DEBORAH HALE

My Lord Protector #452

A Gentleman of Substance #488

The Bonny Bride #503

The Elusive Bride #539

The Wedding Wager #563

Whitefeather’s Woman #581

Carpetbagger’s Wife #595

The Love Match #599

“Cupid Goes to Gretna”

Border Bride #619

Lady Lyte’s Little Secret #639


To Graham McDonald,

nuclear engineer, rock climber

and all-around answer to a maiden’s prayer,

as well loved by his sisters as Thorn Greenwood.

Nobody deserves a “happily ever after” more than you,

Big Red!




Contents


Chapter One (#ucda33de6-ef8f-53a1-857c-1ef0e7f815b6)

Chapter Two (#u934830cb-c479-5bec-9685-b8ce372e253d)

Chapter Three (#u91f731c3-12d8-5380-aeac-b3c5e66bc3f0)

Chapter Four (#u92e8e8f0-dd8d-5dcf-8807-00b399fae112)

Chapter Five (#u6aa9d3ad-dcd8-5c7b-b8d0-18a37013c1fd)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Bath, England

May 1815

“Felicity!”

The sound of her name, bellowed in a resonant masculine voice from the entry hall of her Bath town house, roused Lady Felicity Lyte from a restless doze.

It must be after midnight. What could Thorn be doing here at this unholy hour?

Not that Mr. Hawthorn Greenwood was a stranger to Number 18 Royal Crescent after dark. Quite the contrary. A mere two nights ago, at this very hour, he had been warming the bed beside her, serenely unaware that his days as her lover were numbered.

Until this moment, she’d had no communication with him concerning the polite note in which she’d terminated their discreet love affair.

Off in the distance, Thorn roared her name again. Felicity heard his footsteps thunder up the stairs. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, as she threw off the bedclothes and groped for her dressing gown.

She’d never heard Thorn Greenwood raise his voice. Nor move with anything but quiet, temperate steps. The racket of his current approach frightened Felicity just a little—and stirred her a great deal.

The man must be well-foxed, she decided as she thrust her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown and fumbled in the dark to tie the sash. Had he fortified himself at some fashionable drinking establishment, then come here intent on begging her to take him back? Perhaps to demand some better account of why she’d decided to cast him off so abruptly?

The notion that he cared enough to demand or beg anything gave Felicity a queasy sensation that was not altogether unpleasant. Rather like looking out at a breathtaking vista from an alarming altitude.

Much as she longed to, she could not afford to continue her enjoyable love affair with Thorn Greenwood. Neither did she dare tell him the true reason why.

Darting the length of her bedchamber, she threw the door open just as Thorn came skidding to a halt before it. Expecting to encounter the reek of spirits, so familiar from her experience with her late husband, Felicity was surprised when she smelled nothing of the kind.

In the faint glow cast by a night lamp in the upstairs hall, Thorn looked perturbed to a degree Felicity associated with immoderate drinking. His greatcoat was unbuttoned, his hat absent altogether, and his dark hair ruffled either by the wind or his own haste. His eyes, usually the calm, steadfast brown of freshly turned earth, now flashed with the sparks of flint struck against flint.

Gazing up at Thorn as he towered over her, his broad shoulders and muscular torso filling out his greatcoat, Felicity had to anchor herself against the intense attraction that threatened to propel her into his arms.

If only he’d come to confront her any time but now—anywhere but here. Late at night, on the threshold of the room where they’d made love so often. Yet, not often enough. If they held their breaths and listened, they might hear her bed calling them with its sensual siren song.

Her skin warmed with the physical memory of his strong but gentle touch. The sensitive tips of her bosoms thrust out against her nightgown and dressing gown to lure his lips. The sweet fissure between her thighs took fire in readiness for another delicious coupling.

If Thorn Greenwood dropped to his knees and begged for one more night, his face pressed to her bosom and his large deft hands cradling her backside, no power on earth, least of all her own badly divided will, could force Felicity’s lips to frame a refusal.

“Is Ivy here?” he demanded.

The words were so contrary to anything she’d expected that Felicity struggled to understand them.

“Ivy? Your…sister?”

“Of course, my sister.” Thorn’s brusque tone rasped against her kindled passion like a man’s un-shaven cheek grazing the sensitive flesh of her bare neck. “Do you think I’ve come here at this hour because I’ve developed a sudden passion for horticulture?”

Felicity’s fragile sense of anticipation shattered into sharp splinters of ice.

“What on earth would your silly sister be doing in my house in the middle of the night? If this is some spurious pretext for you to barge in here and wake me from a sound sleep, you will regret it, Mr. Greenwood, I assure you.”

“Depend upon it, Lady Lyte, nothing less dire than the defence of my sister’s virtue and reputation could induce me to cross a threshold over which I’m no longer welcome.” Even in the dim light Felicity could see the muscles of Thorn’s firm jaw tighten further. “As to why Ivy might be under your roof, I suggest you put that question to your nephew, the young scoundrel.”

Every word out of his mouth splashed cold water over Felicity’s fevered flesh. Bad enough Thorn Greenwood should come here at this hour of the night, exciting all manner of absurd expectations in her only to smash them to pieces again. But to insult her late husband’s nephew, a young man Felicity loved like the son she’d never expected to have, that was an outrage she would not bear.

“Pray, watch your tongue, Thorn Greenwood! I know of few young men who less deserve to be called a scoundrel than Oliver Armitage. What is my nephew supposed to have done to have compromised your sister’s reputation that she couldn’t do quite as readily on her own? I vow, I never met a more heedless little romp.”

That wasn’t true, Felicity’s conscience reproached her. On those few occasions when she’d encountered Thorn’s younger sister on the town, Felicity had been captivated by the child’s sweet high spirits, so at odds with her brother’s gentle gravity. Despite the difference in their ages, the two women had gotten on famously and Lady Lyte had been known to make quite a fuss over young Miss Greenwood.

Felicity turned a deaf ear to her own reason. Thorn’s unwarranted slight against Oliver demanded tit for tat. He wouldn’t mind any insult to himself half so much as one to his beloved sister.

Thorn’s powerful hands clenched and unclenched, as though barely restrained from grasping her upper arms and shaking her until her teeth rattled. Or perhaps pulling her close to kiss her until her knees gave way. Just contemplating those possibilities left Felicity a trifle dizzy.

“B-besides,” she added, “I doubt Oliver even knows your sister. There cannot be a young man in all of Bath less anxious to venture out on the town.”

Not that his doting aunt hadn’t cajoled him often enough. A fortnight ago, Ivy Greenwood would have been just the sort of winsome creature Felicity might have urged on her nephew to lure him away from his books and his laboratory.

Thank goodness she hadn’t. A shiver snaked through Felicity. Any match between Oliver and Ivy would have bound her inextricably to the Greenwood family, just when she needed to get as far away from Thorn as possible.

The words he hurled at her next echoed Felicity’s deepest fears. “I have reason to believe your nephew and my sister have eloped to Gretna Green.”

Felicity Lyte had no patience whatsoever with women who swooned. She considered it a vapid affectation. The last thing in the world she wanted was for the shock of Thorn’s news to make her wilt into his arms. But as everything around her began to twirl like a child’s spinning top, she found herself with no choice in the matter.

“Felicity!”

Breaking his vow never to budge a step across the threshold of her private chamber again, Thorn hoisted his erstwhile mistress into his arms and carried her to the bed.

As he laid Felicity on the rumpled sheets, the familiar fragrance of rosewater wrapped around him strand by delicate strand, pulling him toward her. It took every crumb of Thorn’s considerable self-control to curb the urge to indulge in one final kiss. The last time he’d pressed his lips to hers, he hadn’t realized it would be the last time.

For a moment, his passion for Felicity blotted every rational thought from Thorn’s mind, including the concern for his sister which had brought him here in the first place. The wild brown tangle of her hair against the pillow tempted his hands to touch. If he inhaled until his head spun and he pitched on top of her supine body, Thorn doubted he could breathe in enough of her subtle fragrance to satisfy him.

He should have known from the moment this beautiful, sought-after creature first invited him to become her lover that she’d made a foolish mistake. What could such a diamond of the first water want with a tiresomely respectable fellow like him? A man of sound but scarcely brilliant intellect, and no pretensions of wit or charm. Not ill-looking, but hardly a beau of fashion. A man with family responsibilities and financial obligations, unable to shower her with presents or even tender an honorable bid for her hand.

Yet, she had chosen him. And for the first time in his steady, dutiful life Hawthorn Greenwood had done something less than respectable. Something furtive. Something scandalous. Something so exhilarating, he could scarcely believe it was happening to him.

Felicity Lyte had offered him a banquet of forbidden fruit. Even as he’d gorged himself upon it, Thorn had found his appetite piqued rather than sated. By mutual agreement the span of their time together had been limited to this one Season at Bath. Then, with several blissful weeks still ahead of them, Thorn had received a tersely-worded letter from Felicity ending their relationship.

As he should have expected, she’d grown tired of him. Found a superior replacement, perhaps.

Now Thorn glanced around her shadow-shrouded bedchamber, satisfying himself that Felicity had been sleeping alone—for tonight, at least.

He shook his head hard to banish his selfish desires and motives. Certainly he’d been angered by the casual manner in which Felicity had cast him off. Hurt, too—might as well admit it. Still, that didn’t give him the right to burst in on the woman at such an uncivilized hour and shock her into a swoon with his distressing suspicions.

“Felicity?” He’d bellowed her name in the entry hall, then gasped it when she’d collapsed into his arms. Now he spoke it in a coaxing murmur as he chafed her hand. “Wake up, please. I’m sorry I broke the news to you so baldly. I should have known it would come as a terrible shock.”

A wave of alarm swelled within him when she did not rouse right away. He pressed his fingers to the tender flesh at the base of her throat, searching for a pulse.

“Thorn?” Felicity’s eyelids fluttered. She spoke his name with the peculiar softness of affection as her lips half curved in a drowsy, quizzical, trusting smile. “What happened? Where am I, darling?”

Thorn’s heart lurched in his chest. Could he have misunderstood her letter? Might she still want him, for a few more weeks at least? The possibility elated him and that precarious sense of elation unsettled him.

What terrifying power over his happiness had he yielded to this woman?

As if to demonstrate that very capacity, Lady Lyte opened her glittering green eyes wide as a tremor of aversion quivered through her. She flinched from his touch.

“What are you doing here?”

If she’d raised her hand and slapped him hard across the cheek, it could not have stung like the steely chill of her tone. Thorn winced from it, pulling upright from his solicitous crouch beside her bed.

A sharp intake of her breath told Thorn she recalled why he’d come.

Her next words confirmed it. “Oliver and your sister? Run off together to Gretna? Are you certain?”

Slowly, she rose to perch on the edge of the bed. Thorn bit his tongue to keep from warning her to be careful. If the woman wanted to risk another fainting spell, it was no business of his, after all.

“If I’d been certain, I would hardly be wasting my time here, Lady Lyte. I’d be on the road to Bristol this very moment trying to catch them before they got any further with such folly.”

“You must be mistaken.” Felicity’s doubtful tone belied the certainty of her words. “I breakfasted with Oliver just this morning. I never saw a young man who looked less like he meant to elope.”

Her balance appeared equally dubious as she surged to her feet. Though Thorn willed his arms to remain straight at his sides, one reached out of its own accord to steady Felicity.

Thorn Greenwood had always taken modest pride in knowing his own mind and acting in a deliberate manner upon carefully reasoned decisions. Unused to being pulled in contrary directions, he did not enjoy the sensation.

He wished he did not enjoy the sensation of Felicity Lyte clinging to his arm.

“I hope you’re right about your nephew.”

Thorn wasn’t certain he meant it. If they discovered Oliver Armitage tucked up sound and alone in his own bed or burning the midnight oil in his study, then Ivy’s disappearance would take on a far more sinister complexion.

“Will you at least humor me by confirming his presence in your house?”

“Very well.” Felicity wrenched her hand back from Thorn’s arm as though she regretted the necessity of accepting his support. “Anything to speed you on your way.”

As she stalked past him toward the door, Thorn followed, ready to catch her again if she so much as swayed.

She did not.

Indeed, her steps seemed to gain assurance as she marched down the hallway.

“I’ll try his study first.” Felicity tossed the words over her shoulder as she halted before a door at the end of the wide corridor. “He often forgets the time when he’s absorbed in his work.”

Tapping gently on the door, she called her nephew’s name, but received no response.

“Oliver?” She turned the knob and pushed the door open a crack. “Are you there?”

A musty odor of old books wafted from the room, mingled with the faint reek of chemical solutions. But all was dark and still within. Oliver Armitage did not answer his aunt’s call.

“He must have retired to bed at a decent hour for a change.” A note of uncertainty crept into Felicity’s voice.

Pushing past Thorn to the door opposite her nephew’s study, she knocked harder and hailed him in a more urgent tone. “Oliver, wake up! It’s urgent I speak with you at once.”

No acknowledgement.

“He’s a sound sleeper.”

Thorn wondered whether she meant the remark to reassure herself or to confound his mounting conviction that he’d been right all along.

Forsaking subtlety, Lady Lyte thrust open the bedroom door. “Oliver, pardon us for waking you, dear boy. But Mr. Greenwood has come with the most preposterous…”

The rest of her sentence evaporated into the dormant shadows of the empty bedchamber. The hall lamp’s dim glimmer revealed crisp outlines of furniture, including an undisturbed bed.

“Perhaps he has gone out, after all,” Felicity suggested, clearly forgetting her earlier claim that there was not a young man in Bath less anxious to venture out on the town.

“Perhaps.”

A splash of white against the bed’s dark coverlet caught Thorn’s eye. He brushed past Felicity. His hand closed over a sheet of paper, neatly folded and sealed with wax. Pulling it into the faint ribbon of light that spilled through the open doorway, he squinted to decipher two words written on the outside.

He shoved the paper toward Felicity. “It’s addressed to you.”




Chapter Two


Felicity willed her hand not to tremble as she held it out to receive the communication Oliver had left for her.

“Can you fetch me a light, please?” she asked Thorn.

Whatever message this paper held, she had no intention of returning to her own bedroom to read it. Certainly not in Thorn Greenwood’s company.

Why, the place was crammed to the ceiling with vivid, bedeviling memories of the nights they’d spent together. The last thing Felicity wanted to contemplate just now was any reminder of Thorn’s deliberate, attentive lovemaking and her own ardent response to it.

Ever obliging, Thorn headed out into the hall and returned bearing a lamp.

The thickness and texture of the paper in her hand put Felicity in mind of the letter she’d written to him just the other day. Reluctance had tugged at her elbow. Regret at having to end their affair prematurely had sharpened her words. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but neither had she wanted him to hold any false hope that she might change her mind.

If Thorn had entreated her with those steadfast brown eyes and the earnest set of his handsome features, Felicity had feared she might capitulate.

With disastrous consequences.

“Well?” Thorn prompted her, his gaze fixed on the paper. “Do you intend to open it or not?”

“Of course.” Felicity stirred from her musings. Her fingers fumbled as she broke the seal. “Don’t badger me!”

Events had so far confirmed Thorn’s preposterous suggestion. Still, Felicity persisted in the vain hope that this note from Oliver would not say what she feared it might.

To the best of her knowledge, her nephew had only the barest acquaintance with Ivy Greenwood. And even if he knew the young lady well and cared for her deeply, a man of science like Oliver hadn’t the rash temperament to bolt for Gretna Green on the spur of the moment.

Then again, Ivy Greenwood had an impulsive streak quite wide enough for both of them, not to mention a winsome beauty that might make a fool of the cleverest man.

Felicity’s insides churned as she forced herself to read what Oliver had written. Thorn held the lamp high, peering over her shoulder. The warm tickle of his breath on her ear made it nearly impossible to concentrate on deciphering the young scientist’s spiky scrawl.

“Dear Aunt Felicity,” Thorn read aloud. “By the time you find this, I will be well on my way to Scotland, where I plan to wed Miss Ivy Greenwood. As Miss Greenwood is below the age of consent and she feared her brother might not approve the match…”

Under his breath Thorn muttered, “Too right, lad,” then picked up where he had left off. “…We have decided to elope. Knowing how fond you are of my wife-to-be, I trust you will wish us every happiness. We look forward to making our home with you when we return. Ever your affectionate nephew, Oliver Armitage.”

By slow degrees, Thorn let the hand in which he held the lamp drop. Likewise, the hand in which Felicity held the letter fell slack.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, as the indisputable truth did battle with Felicity’s adamant denial and beat it senseless.

“W-why, this is madness,” she insisted when she found her voice at last. “I cannot imagine a more ill-matched pair than my nephew and your sister. What can have gotten into those foolish children?”

As she spoke, Felicity turned to face Thorn. When she saw how close he hovered behind her, she swallowed a little gasp and stepped back. Not that she was frightened of the man—only of the intense, bewildering effect he had upon her. Her fingers itched to reach up and nuzzle his soft side whiskers in the familiar gesture that was their signal to retire to bed.

Had been their signal, she reminded herself, clenching both hands by her sides to restrain them.

Perhaps some restless hunger in her eyes betrayed her barely checked desire, for Thorn lowered his voice to the mellow, intimate cadence of lovemaking.

“I’ll tell you what’s gotten into those foolish children, Lady Lyte.” His gaze ranged over her face like a fond caress. “The same madness that sometimes afflicts older and wiser hearts.”

“Surely, you can’t mean us?” Felicity forced a laugh. It tinkled like the cut-glass crystals on a chandelier striking against one another. “I, for one, am well past years of discretion and quite cured of girlish romantic illusions. And you’re the last man in Bath, perhaps in all of Britain, inclined to madness or any other excess.”

Sensible, steady, forthright, respectable Hawthorn Greenwood. Felicity knew, for she had weighed all those somewhat tiresome virtues in his favor before selecting him to become her convenient paramour. She hadn’t wanted a more romantic or fanciful fellow, apt to imagine himself in love with her. Whatever that meant.

Thorn did not look as pleased with her tribute to his equanimity as a sensible man ought. His full dark brows drew together and the line of his wide, generous mouth stretched taut. Felicity shrank from the shadow of distress in his too-candid eyes.

“I bore you.”

“Don’t be silly!” Her denial rang a trifle hollow even in Felicity’s own ears.

He didn’t bore her, she insisted to herself. He’d only failed to surprise her.

Until tonight.

Now she couldn’t make up her mind whether or not she liked such surprises.

“I’m incapable of being silly.” He made the remark in such dire earnest, it might have been amusing.

But Felicity was not inclined to laugh.

“You make it sound like a crime,” she chided him. “It isn’t. There are far too many silly people in this world, and they cause no end of trouble for us sensible folk. These two youngsters of ours, for instance. The way you barged in here tonight leads me to believe you’re no more in favor of this ridiculous elopement than I am.”

“Of course I’m not.” Thorn looked offended that she might believe otherwise. “My sister is much too young to know her own mind when it comes to an important matter like marriage.”

Ivy Greenwood could be no more than eighteen, Felicity reckoned. The same age at which she’d embarked on her own misadventure in matrimony.

Thorn shook his head. “And, as you’ve said, they are a vastly ill-suited couple.” He glanced heaven-ward. “My sister—the wife of a scientist. Ivy is sweet-tempered and goodhearted,” he amended, “but rather…”

“Impulsive?” suggested Felicity. “Fickle?”

Thorn looked ready to contradict her, then he shrugged. “You’re probably right. I imagine Ivy has got it in her head that an elopement is terribly romantic. But she’s seen so little of the world. How can she know young Armitage is the man she’ll want to spend the next fortnight with, let alone the rest of her life?”

“How, indeed?” Felicity expelled a sigh of relief. She and Thorn were in agreement about this situation, at least. They had all the same reasons for wanting to stop her nephew from marrying his sister.

Almost all.

She had an additional one that Thorn must not know about on any account. The same reason she had ended their affair prematurely when she would much rather have lingered to the very last second of the Season then perhaps made plans to take up where they had left off again next year.

Now, that could never be, just as her nephew marrying into the Greenwood family must never be.

“We’re in agreement, then?” Thorn cursed himself for having let that remark about boring her slip out. What could be more tiresome than a cast-off lover who refused to take his leave quietly? “They must be intercepted, made to see sense and brought home.”

A look of dismay clouded Felicity’s luminous tawny eyes. Then she gulped a deep breath and squared her slender shoulders. “Very well. I’ll toss a few clothes into a portmanteau and leave tonight. They can’t have more than twelve hours’ head start. I’ll probably catch up to them before they reach Gloucester.”

She started for the door. In her virginal white dressing gown with her rich dark hair falling over her shoulders, she looked little older than Ivy.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thorn reached out and caught her wrist. It felt so fragile beneath his fingers. “You can’t go tearing off the length of England—a woman alone.”

Shaking her hand free of his, Felicity glared at him. “I’ll hardly be alone. I plan to take my traveling carriage, of course, with a good experienced driver and at least one footman.”

As if that settled the matter, she slipped out of her nephew’s bedroom and headed down the hall toward her own. Thorn trailed after her.

“Besides.” She glanced back at him. “I won’t have to chase Oliver and your sister every mile of the way to Scotland. Heaven only knows what they’re using for transport. A hired vehicle, most likely. With luck, I’ll overtake them tomorrow. Then I can deliver Ivy safely back to you the following day.”

She paused in her bedroom doorway and held out her hand. For a moment, Thorn wondered if she wanted him to bow over it in parting. Then he understood that she was asking for the lamp.

Stubbornly, he hung onto it. “Do you honestly believe you’ll just pull up behind them on the road, flag them down and cart Ivy back to Bath? What if they’ve stopped at an inn to change horses and you drive clean past them?”

The look that flitted across her face told Thorn she hadn’t taken that, or a great many other possibilities, into account. To be fair, he’d had more time to consider and plan since he’d discovered Ivy missing from their modest rented premises in a less fashionable part of town.

“I’ll inquire after them whenever I stop for refreshment or a change of horses.” Felicity took up the gauntlet of his challenge. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to pick up their trail. And if I must follow them all the way to Gretna, I’m quite prepared to do it. Now kindly give me the light so I can see to dress and pack.”

Almost as an afterthought, she added, “You could oblige me by waking my driver and footman and informing them of the urgency of my errand.”

“No, Felicity. I won’t let you do this.” Thorn held the lamp away from her when she lunged for it. “It will be a difficult journey, perhaps even dangerous.”

Her eyes flashed like a pair of finely cut topaz. “You are not my keeper, Mr. Greenwood. And though you have shared my bed, you are not my husband. If I elect to do this, you have no power whatsoever to prevent me.”

Impossibly mulish woman! Did she have to fling both her rejection and her superior station in his teeth? Thorn fought to quell his slow-burning temper. It would serve her right if he let her indulge in this folly.

To his surprise, she caught his free hand in both of hers and softened her voice. “I thought we agreed Ivy and Oliver must be stopped. Why are we arguing, then? What other choice do we have?”

Wasn’t it obvious? Thorn battled the intoxicating effect of her touch to frame the only reasonable alternative. “I shall go, naturally. I can make better speed on horseback. Ride cross country, if need be, to intercept them.”

She appeared to give his offer at least passing consideration. Though his pride bristled at the notion that his taking action in the matter had never crossed her mind, Thorn tried to marshall his arguments in good order.

“I can seek information from hostlers, toll collectors or other folk a lady might hesitate to question.”

He was winning her over—Thorn sensed it. He battled an inclination to spout any nonsense that might keep Felicity holding on to his hand a second longer.

“Once I manage to overtake them…” Thorn brought forth his most convincing argument. “…I do have the power, as my sister’s guardian, to compel her to return home with me. You would have no such influence over her or your nephew. For this and for all the other reasons I’ve mentioned, I am the logical choice to pursue them. Only…”

“Yes?”

Thorn would rather have cut out his tongue than admit this, especially to her. As the hot blood rose to burn in his cheeks, he let the hand in which he held the lamp sink so Felicity might not witness it.

“I do not have the resources at my disposal that I once had.” Though he mustered every scrap of dignity at his command, Thorn could not look one of England’s wealthiest women in the face as he tried to keep from gagging on those words.

They had never spoken of the enormous disparity in their fortunes. Indeed, they had never talked at length on any but the most superficial of subjects. Still, she must know his family had fallen from prosperity.

His humble address down the hill should have been a clue, in a town where the price of housing rose in direct proportion to the elevation of the neighbourhood. His clothes—well tailored, but several years out of fashion, could easily have given him away. The fact that he didn’t keep a carriage should have confirmed any suspicions.

In all likelihood she had known his situation before she’d ever approached him with her intriguing, potentially scandalous invitation to become her lover. A wealthier fellow might have taken offense.

Oh, just spit it out, man!

“My father left rather considerable debts behind him when he died, several years ago. I have been making good headway in settling them and have every hope of seeing my family prosperous again, one day.”

Thorn addressed himself to the doorjamb, several inches above Felicity’s head. “At the moment, however, I find myself short of ready money. Since we both have an interest in seeing your nephew and my sister prevented from marrying, I suggest we join forces. If you will finance the journey, I will spare you the bother of undertaking it by going in your stead.”

At some point during his little speech, Felicity had let go of his hand. Thorn held himself tall and tense as he waited for her answer. He still could not bring himself to glance down into her eyes, lest he see some gentle mist of pity in them to complete his humiliation.

The seconds stretched taut as a fiddle string, until Thorn feared something must snap with a harsh jangle.

It did.

In a single swift motion that left him agape and unable to stop her, Felicity pounced for the lamp, plucking it from his hand. Then she darted back over the threshold of her bedchamber and slammed the door.

Before Thorn could break from his paralysis to push it open again, a solid-sounding bolt snapped into place.

“Felicity!” He hammered on the locked door. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Her voice drifted out to him, cool and composed. “I think that should be obvious, sir. I regret I must decline your generous offer.”

Thorn heard scurrying footsteps and whispers from the first floor. Some burly young footman might arrive at any moment to evict him from the premises. He wondered that Lady Lyte’s servants had shown him so much forbearance until now.

He ceased knocking and lowered his voice. “Did you not listen to a word I said?”

“Listened, considered and made my decision,” came Felicity’s somewhat muffled reply. “I appreciate your offer to go in my stead, but I have elected to undertake the journey myself. I’m sure you overestimate the difficulties involved.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort, in fact—”

“Mr. Greenwood, please!” Her voice sounded exhausted of patience. “I have made up my mind, and I will not be swayed, least of all by your bluster. Time is of the essence, and I have any number of preparations to undertake.”

And I need you to get out from underfoot. She didn’t say it, but the implication hung in the air, as palpable as the stench of glue rising from a hatter’s workshop.

“I pray you will spare your dignity and mine by letting yourself out quietly. Otherwise I shall be obliged to ring for one of my servants to escort you from my house.”

Inside her bedchamber, Felicity strained to catch Thorn’s answer as she tossed clothes into a case.

His arguments for being the one to go after Oliver and Ivy had been most compelling. She’d very nearly yielded to his logic. One final consideration had induced her to refuse.

Thorn Greenwood possessed too soft a heart, and his reasons for wanting to prevent this foolish marriage were far less urgent than her own.

What if, having intercepted the young lovers, Thorn allowed the pair to convince him that they were truly in love and fully understood the consequences of their actions? As if they could understand.

He’d probably relent, sanction their union with his blessing—even give the bride away. Then they’d all three return to Bath and present her with a fait accompli. What could she do about it then?

Felicity pushed down the little mound of clothing and snapped her case shut.

Thorn might have legal influence over his sister, but she had financial influence over Oliver, and she would not scruple to exercise it if necessary. This whole elopement put Felicity in mind of a high stakes card game. One in which she had by far the most to lose. She did not dare let her hand be played by proxy.

Still no sound came from beyond her door.

“Thorn, are you there?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Yes.”

He had such a pleasant voice. Not too high in pitch, not too low. A fine rich resonance. She would miss it.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes.”

She needed to get dressed but somehow she could not bring herself to remove her clothes with Thorn so near at hand. Not even with a good stout door locked between them.

“Goodbye, then. I promise I’ll fetch Ivy back to you safe and sound as soon as I can.”

“If you’re so intent on going, Felicity, will you at least take me with you?”

Thankfully, there was a locked door between them. If she’d been obliged to look into his eyes, her traitorous lips might have given him a different answer. “No, Thorn.”

“I realize it could be awkward under the circumstances, but you and I are civilized adults. Surely we could travel together for a day or two without…”

Felicity grasped the bell pull and jerked it vigorously.

“What you propose is out of the question, Mr. Greenwood. Now, please, please go.”

She heard rapidly approaching footsteps out in the corridor, then Thorn’s voice. “Very well. I’ll leave.”

Whether those words were addressed to the servants or to her, Felicity could not be sure.

While she waited for the commotion in the corridor to subside, she took a seat at her dressing table and began to do her hair. Beneath her hairbrush, folded in a neat, prim rectangle lay a length of starched white lawn.

Thorn’s neck linen.

Felicity’s fingers trembled as she fondled the cloth. One of her maids must have come across it while tidying the bedroom.

This was the first time Thorn had left so much as a collar button or a watch fob behind to betray his presence. In the early days of their liaison, he’d been fastidious about undressing. With far fewer garments to shed herself, Felicity had taken pleasure in watching and admiring him as he removed his clothes.

As time had passed, they’d become increasingly eager. Helping one another out of their clothes had become a tantalizing prelude to lovemaking.

Stroking her cheek with Thorn’s cravat, Felicity detected no cloying whiff of sweetwater, only the bracing scent of plain soap and the subtle musk of a man. As vexing moisture rose in her eyes, she dropped Thorn’s cravat and swiped the sleeve of her dressing gown across her face. All the while, she chided herself for turning into a sentimental fool.

This was no time to mope and moon over Thorn Greenwood. If she must surrender to such nonsense she would wait until later, when it would not be so bothersome. At the moment necessity demanded she act decisively and keep her wits about her.

A tentative tap sounded on the door.

Felicity started, her heart hammering.

“Mr. Greenwood,” she cried, “must I have my butler summon the constables and swear out a complaint against you?”

“The gentleman’s gone, ma’am,” came an apologetic squeak from Hetty, her lady’s maid. “He left real peaceable like. I saw the light under your door and wondered if you might be needing me, ma’am?”

Shaking her head over her mistake, Felicity rose from the dressing table and unlatched the door.

“Thank you, Hetty, I could use your help. I expect this disturbance has already roused the entire household. Will you kindly advise Ned and Mr. Hixon to ready the big carriage and make their personal preparations for a journey north? I mean to leave within the hour.”

The girl regarded her mistress with bulging eyes. “Will you be gone long, ma’am? Do you need me to pack your bags? Should I make ready to come with you?”

Felicity considered the idea. “I…think not.”

If it had been Alice, her former lady’s maid of over eight years service, she would have accepted the offer of company in a trice. Since Alice had left her employ to marry a prosperous young butcher, Felicity had made do with Hetty, a willing little creature, though inclined to prattle.

In brief spells it was rather diverting, but to be shut up in a carriage for hours at a time with such a one held little appeal for Lady Lyte just then. She would much prefer to be alone with her thoughts and her plans for the future.

Besides… “I should not be gone long. A day or two at most, I expect. Surely I can manage without a maid for that interval.”

A look of relief eased the girl’s features as she smothered a yawn. “If you’re certain, ma’am, I’ll just go deliver your message to Ned and Mr. Hixon.”

She bobbed a curtsy and set off down the hall. Before Felicity could close her door, Hetty spun around again.

“Should I tell Cook to brew you a cup of tea before you set out, ma’am? Or make you up a basket of sandwiches and such for the road?”

At the mere mention of food, Felicity’s stomach revolted.

“For the men,” she ordered. “Nothing for me.”

Slamming the door shut, she dove for her washstand and retched into the basin until nothing more would come.

Spent from the effort, she wetted the edge of a towel in the tepid water from her ewer and hoisted herself into the chair before her dressing table. As she dabbed her cheeks with the damp towel, Felicity contemplated her pale face in the looking glass with dismay and wonder.

After twelve barren years of marriage and widowhood, Providence had played a fine joke on her. Her meticulously regular courses had suddenly ceased far too early for her age, and she woke every morning bilious. Before the summer waned, her belly would begin to swell.

Infinitely generous man that he was, Thorn Greenwood had granted her the dearest desire of her heart, and one of which she had long despaired.

A child.

But in doing so, he had made it necessary for Felicity to cut him out of her life.




Chapter Three


If she thought she could get rid of him that easily, Lady Lyte had better think again!

As Thorn Greenwood rounded The Circus, he cast a glowering glance at the darkened windows of the New Assembly Rooms, long since deserted of ball-goers. After the mauling his pride had taken over the past two days, he was tempted to curse the place where he’d first set eyes on his troublesome mistress.

Where would he and his sister be now, Thorn wondered, if he hadn’t let Ivy coax him out to that first ball of the Season?

If some magical being from a nursery tale had suddenly materialized and offered him the chance to go back and relive the past two months differently, Thorn wasn’t certain whether he would accept or refuse.

True, it had vastly complicated his life and it had all ended on a sour note. While his affair with Felicity Lyte lasted, though, it had been very sweet indeed.

“Quit your mooning, man,” Thorn muttered to himself. He must think about raising the blunt he’d require for a journey—all the way to Scotland if need be.

His steps slowed from the indignant stride that had carried him away from Royal Crescent. A mild night breeze wafted up the gracious hills of Bath from the River Avon. It carried the aromas of fine cooking from the kitchen windows of many a fashionable town house, as well as the music and laughter from a number of private parties winding to a close. The air of conviviality and careless wealth mocked Thorn’s predicament.

Refusing to entertain regrets, he studied the problem with the same resolve he’d brought to bear on the calamity of his family’s fallen fortunes. If one thought hard enough and ruled out no potential solution as too difficult or distasteful, almost any dilemma admitted of a solution. Thorn had more experience than most men of his age and class in learning how to salvage something satisfactory from the bleakest of prospects.

As he wandered down Gay Street and turned onto George, Thorn mulled over the problem in his deliberate, methodical way. Raising one possible solution after another, he weighed each in turn, discarding the unworkable, then proceeding to the next.

He still had a few items of value he could part with to finance his journey, though most would be worth far more to him in sentiment than to a prospective buyer in gold. As his footsteps echoed on the cobbles of Milsome Street, Thorn cast that idea aside. The pawnshops on this busiest of commercial thoroughfares would be locked up as tight as all the other places of business. If he did manage to rouse some broker at this hour, the man would hardly be disposed to cooperate.

Reason counseled Thorn to go home, assemble his valuables, get what sleep he could wrest from the night then set out in the morning. The thought of Ivy and young Armitage gaining a greater lead spurred him to action now, as did the notion of Felicity trundling along dark and deserted highways in a fine carriage with only an ancient driver and a juvenile footman for protection.

Thorn cast his mind upon another prospect.

“Of course.” He chuckled to himself when it finally occurred to him.

He might be short of cash, but he was still comparatively wealthy in a man’s most precious asset—friends. If only he could get word to his brother-in-law. Merritt Temple had horses, carriages and funds he would have put at Thorn’s disposal in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately Merritt’s country estate lay many miles to the east. A detour in that direction would result in an even worse delay than waiting for the pawnbrokers to open in the morning.

Surely there must be a friend in Bath to whom he could appeal.

Weston St. Just! If any man owed Thorn assistance in his present entanglement, surely it was the fellow who had introduced him to Lady Lyte in the first place. Thorn’s stride picked up speed and purpose.

Finding himself near his own doorstep, he ducked inside long enough to scribble a note to their housekeeper saying he and Ivy had been called out of town and might not return for several days. When he emerged once again onto the dark stillness of the street, he turned south toward Sydney Gardens. St. Just kept elegant premises nearby.

Thorn had no worry of waking his old schoolmate at such a time. On the contrary, his concern was whether such a notorious night owl as Weston St. Just might not return home for several more hours. Fortunately, a light burned in the sitting room window and a young footman wasted no time answering Thorn’s knock.

When the boy ushered Thorn into his friend’s presence, St. Just looked mildly surprised to see him. Perhaps mildly amused, as well. “What ho, Greenwood? Has the beauteous Lady Lyte put the boots to you so soon?”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you.” Thorn knew all too well of St. Just’s insatiable appetite for gossip. “I received my marching orders from her two days ago.”

“The little minx!” His host gestured for Thorn to take a seat. “I must say, though, I envy you even a few weeks of her company.”

St. Just lifted his snifter of tawny liquid and nodded toward a side table arrayed with a decanter and more glasses. “Care to drown your sorrows?”

After his unsettling confrontation with Felicity, the offer tempted Thorn sorely. Perching himself on the settee opposite his host, Thorn shook his head. “I daren’t.”

St. Just cast him an indulgent look. “Of course, you never drown your troubles, or run away from them, or any other such cowardice, do you? Always look ’em squarely in the face and soldier on.”

“Tiresome, isn’t it?” Thorn wondered how the pair of them had remained civil, let alone friendly, all these years with such contrary temperaments.

Felicity might have done better to take St. Just as her lover, instead of merely using him as a go-between to approach his less suitable chum. Besides the classical masculine beauty of a Greek statue come to life, Weston St. Just had an easy agreeable way with women that made them flock to him like bees to a tall fragrant flower.

“Tiresome? On the contrary, dear fellow.” St. Just lounged back in his upholstered armchair and sipped his drink. “I tire of most people in no time, for the majority of them are like me—duplicitous, idle, selfish. Salt of the earth folk like you baffle me at every turn. I live in constant anticipation that you may slip from the straight and narrow into some diverting orgy of wickedness.”

“I thought I had.”

“With Lady Lyte, you mean?” St. Just shrugged. “A tantalizing little stumble to keep me on my toes, but far too discreet to tarnish your honor. Now, do tell me what brings you here at this hour? In the case of ninety-nine men out of a hundred, I could guess at once, but you persist in confounding me.”

“It’s my sister, Ivy. She’s taken it into her head to elope with young Armitage—Lady Lyte’s nephew.”

“Has she, by George?” St. Just sat up a little straighter, his dark languid eyes glittering with something like interest. “I wish I had a scapegrace little sister to get up to all kinds of mischief and keep me productively occupied rescuing her bacon from the fire.”

“I’d offer to lend you mine,” growled Thorn, “but I wouldn’t trust you within a mile of Ivy.”

He related the rest of his predicament. How Felicity had insisted on pursuing the young lovers without him. His desperate need to get ahold of a good horse and some money to finance his journey.

Whenever he was tempted to resent St. Just’s ironic amusement over the whole situation, Thorn did his best to conceal it. If he wanted to be on his way tonight, this man was his most promising source of assistance.

“I suppose you’ll expect me to keep all this lovely gossip to myself, now that you’ve confided in me.” St. Just drained his glass and rose from his chair none too steadily.

Thorn leaped to his feet. “It wouldn’t do me much good to fetch Ivy back from Gretna only to have her reputation ruined by word of all this leaking out. Then I’d be obliged to wed her off to Armitage in order to satisfy honor. For all you prattle on, Wes, you’ve always been a good friend in the pinch. What do you say? Can I count on your discretion and your assistance?”

“As to the first,” St. Just raised his hand, “I swear on my rather dubious honor.”

“As to the second,” he turned out his pockets, “I’ve just come from a monstrous night at the tables. I won’t tell you how much I lost or you’d be scandalized. Enough, I fear, that I couldn’t lend you a brass farthing until I have an opportunity to meet with my banker upon the morrow.”

“Damn!” The word was hardly out of his mouth before Thorn started to cudgel his brains for someone else who could help him.

Weston St. Just pressed the tips of his fingers together. “Unless…”

“Unless?” prompted Thorn. The word had a hopeful sound, but the tone in which his friend had said it made him uneasy somehow.

“Got anything on you of value?” St. Just cast a glance at Thorn’s signet ring as if appraising how much it might fetch.

“This.” Thorn twisted the ring back and forth on his finger, a sensation he’d always found curiously comforting. “And my grandfather’s gold watch and fob. It’s no good, though. I thought of that already. The pawnshops are all locked up tight as drums until morning.”

“I don’t mean you to hock them, old fellow.” St. Just stretched his long graceful limbs as though he’d recently woken from a refreshing night’s sleep. “But how would you feel about wagering them?”

Thorn opened his mouth to protest, but his host cut him off. “One good hand at the game I left behind and you’d have blunt aplenty to see you to Gretna and back. Three good hands and you could probably finance a Grand Tour.” He ushered Thorn toward the sitting room door.

“I’ve never been a gambler.” Thorn protested. “You know that as well as anybody.”

In a sense, he’d taken a flutter on his liaison with Felicity Lyte—hoping to win a jackpot of pleasure. He’d dealt himself a hand believing he had everything to gain and nothing to lose. Too late he had come to realize that he’d bet on his ability to bed a woman without falling in love with her.

The stakes had been nothing less than his heart. And he had lost it.

Weston St. John paused at the doorway and regarded his friend. “You may try as hard as you like to play it safe, old fellow, but life is a gamble any way you look at it. You’re welcome to stay here the night, then roust me out at some uncivilized hour of the morning to see my banker. Or, if you’re determined to be on your way before sunrise, you can come along with me and risk your invaluables on the turn of a few cards. Which will it be?”

Rubbing the face of his signet ring, Thorn struggled with his decision. The watch was so old it showed only the hour, which limited its use in all but the most leisurely time keeping. The signet ring was older still. Both had passed down, father to son, through the Greenwood line to him.

He had slight reservations about leaving his watch and ring as security against a loan, to be redeemed at the earliest opportunity. To run the risk of losing them altogether…

Of course he would still be head of the family without these ancestral badges of authority. Yet somehow, deep in his heart, it felt otherwise.

Reason assured Felicity Lyte she was following the only sensible course of action open to her. Her heart warned her otherwise, but she had learned long ago to place no trust in that capricious organ. Not even when her coachman agreed with it.

“Are you sure this journey of yours can’t wait until morning, ma’am?” Even Mr. Hixon’s massive hand could not stifle the great yawn that threatened to tear his face in two.

“I regret having to drag you out of bed at this time of night.” Keeping her tone polite yet insistent, Felicity resisted the urge to yawn in reply as Hetty helped her on with her cloak.

Even in May, the nights could be chilly, particularly when one would be sitting in an unheated carriage for many hours.

“I’m afraid this cannot wait. Is the carriage ready to go?”

“Aye, ma’am.” The coachman turned his old-fashioned tricorn hat around in his hands as he nodded toward the front door. “Where are we bound, if I may ask?”

“I hope to be in Tewkesbury by tomorrow evening.” Felicity made a few quick calculations, guessing when Oliver and Miss Greenwood might have left Bath.

She prayed her nephew had hired a post chaise, rather than relying on the faster stage coaches or, worse yet, The Royal Mail. “I hope we shan’t have to venture much farther than that before we can return.”

The coachman nodded, as evident eagerness to be out on the open road battled his fatigue. “At least we’ve clear weather and a good moon.”

He opened the door and held it for his mistress as she emerged onto the moonlit street. “What with leaving now, we’ll be through Bristol before even the market traffic. If we make good time, we should be able to stop at The King’s Arms in Newport for breakfast.”

“A capital suggestion, Mr. Hixon.” Felicity descended the front steps of her town house and climbed into her carriage.

They nearly always stayed at that clean, well-run inn on their way to or from Bath. If Oliver had hired a coach and spirited Miss Greenwood away some time after noon, they would almost certainly have spent their first night at The King’s Arms. Felicity could catch news of them there, perhaps even intercept them if they did not get back on the road at too early an hour.

The coachman scrambled up to his perch, and, a moment later, Lady Lyte’s elegant traveling carriage rolled off toward Bristol Road. Inside, Felicity smiled to herself in the darkness. She could picture the astonished look on Thorn’s face when she arrived back in Bath tomorrow evening with his chastened little sister in tow.

When she tried to stop picturing Thorn’s face, however, she encountered considerable difficulty.

Unbidden images of him plagued her. Thorn appearing at her bedroom door in search of his sister, his dishevelled state rather endearing. Thorn hovering over her when she’d stirred from her foolish swoon, a warm air of concern radiating from him. Thorn, angrier than she had ever seen him, full dark brows brooding like thunderheads on the horizon. No sooner did Felicity banish one memory of Thorn Greenwood than another rose to take its place.

Perhaps it was just as well she’d been forced to make this break with him now, before the unsettling influence he exerted upon her grew stronger.

As the horses settled into a steady, mile-eating trot, Felicity pulled her cloak tighter and wedged herself into one corner of the carriage. Resting her head against the smooth fabric of the upholstered seat, she tried to elude all thoughts of Thorn Greenwood by fleeing into dreams.

When that didn’t work, she decided to concentrate her mind on one subject sure to divert her from anything else.

Her baby.

Under her cloak, Felicity passed a hand over her flat belly in a gesture at once tender and fiercely protective. Despite all evidence, she still had trouble believing there could be a baby growing inside her.

How many times, during the early years of her marriage, had she prayed for this very thing, only to be cruelly disappointed again and again? Meanwhile, Percy’s tribe of merry-begotten offspring had grown apace. Each one an added insult, proof of his virility, to be cared for and educated by the bounty of her fortune.

How many odious cures had she endured for her barrenness? Sometimes downright painful, always humiliating.

Year after year, she had watched the lack of an heir eat away at her husband and at her marriage. Until she could no longer bear to look him in the face because she knew what he must be thinking. Why had he married this tradesman’s daughter, to refill the empty coffers of his noble family with her fortune, when she could not produce a child to inherit what he’d sacrificed so much to restore?

As Lady Lyte’s carriage drove through the tranquil shadowy countryside of Sommerset, a queer sound like the bastard spawn of a sigh and a bitter chuckle echoed within, too quiet for either the driver or the footman to hear from their outside perches.

Who had been the more gullible goose, Felicity asked herself—she or Percy? How could neither of them have suspected his mistresses might’ve had other lovers to sire their children? Foisting their maintenance off upon him because he had the wealth to provide for them and because he was so pitifully eager to prove his virility by claiming them as his own.

Now here she was, with child at last. By a man she had no intention of marrying.

Would Thorn Greenwood ever have consented to become her lover if he’d thought there was any danger of her conceiving? Felicity knew the answer to that, for Thorn had raised the question himself when she first approached him with her scandalous proposition.

He’d blushed and stammered with an awkwardness she’d found endearing in such a consummate gentleman. It had taken two or three tries before he could frame his query in blunt enough terms for her to understand what he was asking.

She had almost abandoned the whole undertaking then and there, rather than expose her painful past. Then some baffling compulsion, deeper than her embarrassment and self-pity, had made her confess the truth.

“Don’t trouble yourself on that account, sir. While we were married, my husband sired several children—none of them by me.”

To forestall any word or look of pity, she had forced herself to laugh. “So you see I am as free as a man to take my pleasure.”

Perhaps those words had tempted fate to play her for a fool. She would have the last and best laugh, though. Her fortune and her widowhood would make it possible for her to enjoy the pleasures of motherhood without the bothersome encumbrance of a husband.

Her conscience protested her thinking of Thorn Greenwood as an encumbrance, but Felicity turned a deaf ear. Even if she had been willing to risk marriage again for the sake of propriety, she’d gauge a husband’s suitability on a different scale than the one she’d used to pick a lover. Thorn would have been far down on her list of candidates.

“Perhaps I should have brought Hetty along, after all,” Felicity grumbled to herself. “At least her tiresome prattle might have distracted me from thinking about that man.”

Mustering more of the desperate resolution she’d employed to lock Thorn out of her bedchamber and order him out of her house, Felicity tried once again to evict him from her thoughts. She concentrated on making plans for herself and her baby once this troublesome business with her nephew and Ivy Greenwood was settled.

First, she would retire to the country for her confinement. Somewhere quiet, with a healthy climate. Far away from Bath and equally far away from the Lyte family seat in Staffordshire. Somewhere in Kent might do quite nicely. Except…

Did Thorn have a country estate in Kent? Felicity rummaged her memory, but could not recall. Had they ever talked about it?

No. They’d seldom spoken of anything beyond immediate trivialities, perhaps out of fear that it might lead to a deeper attachment on one side or the other.

“You’re thinking about him again,” she scolded herself.

If she wanted to know his home county, she should save her questions and put them to Miss Ivy on the drive back to Bath.

That sensible idea hit upon, Felicity settled herself to imagine the quiet, cosy household she would fashion for her family of two. She scarcely noticed her breath slowing to keep time with the gentle bounce and sway of the carriage.

Some while later, she roused slightly as the sound and tempo of the ride altered. Awake only enough to tell herself they must be traveling over the cobbled city streets of Bristol, she sank back into slumber.

She woke next in a sudden, disorienting manner as the carriage slowed abruptly, sending her hurtling forward onto the opposite seat. Darkness still wrapped the landscape outside. How long had she been asleep? Where were they?

High skittish whinnies from the horses penetrated the interior of the carriage as it came to a full stop. Felicity regained her seat, then reached up to rap her knuckles on the ceiling and demand an accounting from Mr. Hixon. The next sound from outside made her hand freeze in midair and her stomach churn in a way that had nothing to do with her pregnancy.

“Stand and deliver!”

Could someone be playing a tasteless prank? Felicity wondered as she scooped her reticule from the floor to hide in the folds of her cloak. Surely highwaymen were a fixture of the last century, not this one.

Or had travelers become more cautious about venturing over deserted stretches of road after dark? Thorn’s prudent warning echoed in her thoughts. It will be a difficult journey—perhaps even dangerous.

She’d been so anxious to distance herself from him and so impatient with his attempts to take control of the situation. What had she expected? Thorn Greenwood was a man, after all, not a lapdog.

“Give us leave to pass,” shouted the coachman. “What do ye want, anyway?”

“Wha’ d’yer think?” came the reply, followed by harsh laughter that made Felicity break out in gooseflesh. “Nice lookin’ rig like this, bound to have good pickin’s, eh? Let’s take a look.”

Felicity wedged herself into the corner farthest from the carriage door as she heard a rider dismount and footsteps approach.

“I’ve got a pistol cocked and I ain’t afraid to use it,” called the highwayman for the benefit of anyone inside the carriage.

Felicity fumbled in her reticule, extracting several pound notes from the large number inside. This knight of the road would never miss them. Though her pulse throbbed in her ears, she lunged for the carriage door and threw it open.

“Here.” She thrust her reticule toward a man-shaped shadow. “Take it and let us be on our way. I must get to Gloucester by morning—my mother is very ill.”

If such nefarious creatures had hearts, that story together with her ready cooperation might save her from being molested further.

Or perhaps not.

“I’m right sorry to ’ear that, ma’am,” the highwayman replied.

He shook the reticule. Several golden guineas at the bottom jingled. “Thanks for this little gift. But don’t be in too big a hurry to get on your way again. Those prads of yours sound a bit winded to me.” He referred to the horses.

When he took a step nearer, Felicity retreated into the depths of the carriage.

“Are ye as pretty as ye sound, I wonder?” A gloved hand reached in and groped toward her.

“I’m not at all pretty, and…” Felicity floundered for anything she could say that might deter this criminal from doing what he appeared intent on. “…and…I have the pox!”

Felicity heard a dull thud, then the highwayman pitched into the carriage. The scream she’d been choking back for some minutes ripped from her throat.




Chapter Four


Thorn Greenwood shifted in his saddle. He’d been riding hard for several hours on a succession of narrow county roads which skirted around Bristol to reach the highway that ran between that bustling port and the city of Gloucester, over thirty miles to the north. A bilious sense of urgency gripped his belly as he spurred the spirited mount St. Just had loaned him.

A brisk west wind from off the mouth of the Severn whipped the horse’s mane and threatened to snatch away Thorn’s hat. He jammed it down tighter and kept riding.

“I should never have let her leave Bath without me,” Thorn muttered aloud the words that had drummed in his head over and over while he’d been riding.

The full moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale ghostly light over the heath and on the black ribbon of road that wound through it. Thorn squinted into the shadowy darkness, straining to catch the faintest sign of Felicity’s carriage.

Might he have reached the highway before her? Or was she several long miles ahead of him on this lonely, perilous stretch of road?

Thorn did not have long to ponder the question, for just then his horse reached the crest of a slight rise. From that vantage he could make out a small bobbing light not far ahead—one that he prayed was being cast by a driving lamp on Felicity’s carriage.

A sigh of relief rose to his lips, only to be sucked back in a gasp. The light had abruptly stopped moving.

That might mean any number of things, but at the moment Thorn could think of only one. Crouching low in the saddle, he urged his flagging horse to one last desperate dash, fearing he might be too late. The pounding of his heart outstripped even the fast-rolling thunder of hooves against the road.

In the instant he drew close enough to see, Thorn recognized Felicity’s equipage. The flame of satisfaction that flared within him rapidly quenched at the sight of a man preparing to enter the carriage box.

A man with a white handkerchief shrouding the lower portion of his face.

As Thorn drew near the carriage, he reined in his mount, then hurled himself from the saddle onto the intruder. The two of them pitched into the carriage as a woman’s scream pierced the darkness.

The boneless sprawl of the man beneath him told Thorn the fellow had been knocked senseless. Just to be safe, he groped around the carriage floor until his hand closed over the highwayman’s pistol.

“Keep away from me!” cried Felicity. “Keep away, do you hear?”

Thorn struggled to speak so he could reassure her that all was well—at least better than it had been a few moments ago. But his flying tackle of the highwayman had both winded and stunned him. Unable to coax out any words louder than a whisper, he scrambled up from the floor, intent on comforting Felicity in his embrace, instead.

As he reached for her, she screamed again, loud enough to make his ears ring. At the same time, her heeled slipper came into violent contact with his midriff. Thorn doubled over with a grunt of pain.

He lurched backward, only to trip over the unconscious highwayman and crumple onto the seat opposite Felicity. Before he could catch his breath or collect his wits, she fell on him, scratching, slapping, pummelling like a wild creature. Thorn fell back before the onslaught, his hands raised to fend off the worst of it.

“Felicity!” he gasped.

Her attack did not abate. If anything, it gathered speed and force, each blow punctuated by a squeal or high-pitched grunt.

“Felicity, it’s Thorn.” He caught her deceptively fragile wrists in his hands to stay her assault and gave her a good hard shake to bring her to her senses. “You’re safe, now.”

She froze for a moment. “Thorn? Is it really you?”

Some overwound spring inside him fell blissfully slack. “Do you know anyone else daft enough to chase you halfway across the county at this hour of the night?”

“Thorn.” She choked out his name again. Then, with all the power and passion she had thrown into fighting him, Felicity hurled herself into his arms, weeping in great gusty sobs.

“Hush, now, hush.” Thorn gathered her close, stroking his side whiskers against her hair and fighting a fast-rising tide of desire that threatened to drown his self-control.

First, the headlong race to overtake her, spurred by his fears for her safety. Then, confronting the worst of those fears, only to have Felicity launch her furious assault upon him. It had fired his blood as hot as any love play—the physical contact, the heightened passions, the pounding hearts and panting breath.

And now, cradling Felicity in his arms as she unleashed a torrent of tears on his topcoat, her backside warm against his thighs, with only a flimsy barrier of muslin and broadcloth between his flesh and hers.

At that moment, Thorn would have bartered everything he owned for them to be back in Felicity’s bedchamber, rather than on the open road in a cold carriage with a dazed highwayman beginning to stir at their feet.

“M-Mister Greenwood?” a tremulous young voice inquired from beyond the open carriage door. “Is that you, sir? What happened?”

“Has Lady Lyte come to any harm, sir?” asked a second, deeper voice.

“Apart from a nasty shock, I believe she’s well enough.” Chilling thoughts of what might have befallen Felicity sharpened Thorn’s tone. “No thanks to the pair of you.”

“He did have a gun, sir,” the young footman protested.

The driver offered no excuse, but his voice sounded thoroughly chastened. “Is there aught we can do, now, Mr. Greenwood?”

The highwayman groaned and tried to sit up. Thorn applied some weight to his right foot, which rested between the fellow’s shoulder blades, forcing him back down.

To the driver and footmen who hovered outside, Thorn ordered, “Find a bit of rope to truss this black-guard up.”

“Very good, Mr. Greenwood, sir.”

“Tie him to his horse if you can find it, or to mine if you can’t,” Thorn added. “Then tether it to the carriage. We can turn this fellow over to the proper authorities at the first town we reach. For now, I believe we’d better continue on our way as quickly as possible, in case others of his ilk might be lurking about.”

Perhaps goaded by that warning, Lady Lyte’s driver and footman wasted no time finding some material with which to bind the highwayman, who sounded too befuddled to put up much resistance.

By the time the carriage had recommenced its journey northward, Felicity’s weeping had quieted to a volley of sniffles. Still, she made no effort to distance herself from Thorn. Greedily, he drank in the touch and scent of her, all too conscious of how much he had missed her in the short time they’d been apart.

Might the trouble he’d taken to ride to her rescue have changed her mind about terminating their liaison prematurely? he wondered as he cradled Felicity in his arms.

Hard as Thorn tried not to be enticed by that will-o’-the-wisp of false hope, he failed.

She ought to push Thorn away, order him out of the carriage or, at the very least, rail at him for frightening her half to death. But as her carriage sped on toward Newport, Felicity found herself unable to take any of the actions she ought.

There would be many long years ahead for her to manage without the warm, steadfast comfort of Thorn Greenwood’s embrace. For the present, she needed it more desperately than she had needed anything in a great while. And Lady Felicity Lyte was not accustomed to denying herself anything she needed.

She could not remember ever being so badly frightened. Her heart kept up its rapid flutter in her bosom, and despite a good warm wrap, she began to tremble.

“There, there.” Thorn stroked her arm.

Was it her imagination, or did he press a fleeting kiss on the top of her head?

“Are you all right, Felicity? Or did I speak too soon when I told your servants you were unharmed?” The tender concern that radiated from Thorn’s tone and touch soaked into her heart like warm ointment.

Pride would not allow her to accept comfort for the most grievous wounds life had inflicted upon her. No matter how she might crave it.

“You spoke aright, I suffered nothing worse than a nasty shock.” She sniffled. “Have you a handkerchief I can ruin?”

She would have hated anyone else who’d witnessed her break down into hysterical tears. Perhaps she would hate Thorn for it in the cool light of day when she could see how the betrayal of weakness had diminished her in his eyes. But for this sweet, dark moment she would allow herself the dangerous luxury of relying on a man.

“A handkerchief?” Thorn shifted her a little so he could pry his coat open and rummage in the pocket of his waistcoat. “I believe I have.”

He pressed the folded square of linen into her hand. “There. Do your worst. That’s what laundry’s for.”

“Thank you,” Felicity managed to squeak. The gentle fumbling brush of Thorn’s hands had set her flesh atingle.

She wiped the last residue of moisture from her eyes, thankful that by the time Thorn could see her clearly, the worst ravages of her silly tears would have faded.

If that was vanity, well, so be it. She could not abide having an attractive man see her at less than her best.

As she blew her nose, masked by the forgiving darkness, a thought struck her. “Are you all right, Thorn? After bringing down that awful man…then the way I went at you. I am so sorry. I can’t imagine what got into me.”

“You were only doing your best to defend yourself.” Thorn chuckled. “And making an admirable job of it, too. I don’t believe I took any lasting damage, though.”

A few blows from her wouldn’t have done him any harm, of course. But if that odious highwayman had managed to get off a shot with his pistol…Felicity would never have forgiven herself if Thorn had been injured on her account.

“Well?” she prompted him, bracing herself for the reprimand she probably deserved. Thorn Greenwood seemed like a man who could deliver a stern scolding when one was called for.

“Well…what?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

“The dressing-down you’ve been rehearsing in your mind ever since you left Bath.” Felicity blew her nose again. “Where is it?”

“Oh…that.” Thorn gave a wry chuckle which succumbed to a deep, weary yawn. “It’ll keep until morning. For now, I believe we’d both be better served by an hour’s sleep if we can get it.”

The poor fellow, he must be perfectly exhausted after spending the evening in search of his sister, then the last several hours in pursuit of her.

“You talk sound sense, as always, Mr. Greenwood.” Felicity made a halfhearted attempt to rise from Thorn’s lap. “No doubt you would rest more comfortably without the burden of a blubbering woman to squash you.”

She would likely benefit from putting some distance between them, too. It was difficult enough to keep regrets at bay without the sensation of his arms around her to remind Felicity what she would soon be missing.

“You’re no burden.” With gentle insistence, Thorn drew her back into the protective circle of his arms. “Besides, I’m apt to sleep more soundly for the reminder that you are out of danger.”

“In that case…” Felicity settled back into Thorn’s embrace. “I’m content to remain where I am.”

More than content, in fact. Though she did not dare tell him so.

“Thorn?”

“Yes?” He sounded halfway to sleep already.

She shouldn’t pester him with questions, Felicity chided herself, but she so liked the sound of his voice. “Wherever did you get a horse to come after me?”

“From St. Just.” Thorn patted his pocket. “I’ve got blunt, too. Won it in a card game.”

If Thorn had confessed to stealing the money, Felicity could not have been more surprised. “I thought you never gambled.”

“Never did till tonight.” His words had the slurred, dreamy quality Felicity had heard so often in the past weeks when he’d held her close after their lovemaking. “Don’t know the devil about cards. It may have helped that I was the only sober fellow at the table.”

“Perhaps a little beginner’s luck?” Knowing full well she shouldn’t do it, Felicity could not stop herself reaching up to brush her knuckles against Thorn’s side whiskers.

“Perhaps.” He whispered the word as if it was the sweetest of endearments.

Then, before Felicity could withdraw her hand, he tilted his head to catch her fingers between his shoulder and his cheek, nuzzling them in a chaste gesture of affection that brought a lump to her throat.

She forced her question out past the obstruction. “How could you possibly stake yourself in the sort of bankrupting card game Weston St. Just favors?”

Thorn’s head snapped up again, flinching from her touch in a way he had not flinched from her earlier attack. “I’m not a complete pauper, you know.”

His fortune—or rather his lack of it. Even as she regretted her question, Felicity could not stifle a twinge of annoyance. How many years had she tread with bated breath around the subject of her late husband’s want of prosperity?

At least Thorn Greenwood was making an effort to repair his family’s fortune. And by a more principled means than simply marrying the first available heiress.

“I didn’t say you were a pauper. Most men don’t carry a great deal of ready money around in the middle of the night, that’s all.”

Thorn did not answer at once. Had he fallen asleep, Felicity wondered, or was he too offended to reply?

“I have an old watch and a signet ring,” he said at last, as if confessing to a crime. “St. Just managed to convince the other players they were worth something.”

His admission stung Felicity in a vulnerable spot, just as her question about his gambling stakes must have done to Thorn. She knew very well the watch and ring to which he’d alluded. What price they might fetch from a jeweller, she could not guess. Yet they were priceless to Thorn—a reminder that he belonged to an old family of good breeding.

Despite her fortune and the title for which she’d paid so dear a price, Felicity knew many people still scorned her as an upstart tradesman’s daughter. Suitable only as a mistress for a respectable gentleman like Thorn Greenwood, but never a wife.

Such a union would cause no end of talk. And respectable gentlemen abhorred being a topic of gossip among tattles like Weston St. Just.

Thorn’s arms relaxed their grip on Felicity, and his breath warmed her hair in slow, rhythmic gusts. As she steeled herself to put a great deal more distance between them on the morrow, a further significance of his gambling stakes struck her.

He had gone to a great deal of trouble on her account. First, gambling his most valued possessions, then riding through the night to overtake her carriage. Finally, risking his life to rescue her from danger. Thorn Greenwood was not a man given to pretty speeches, but his actions spoke eloquently of his feelings for her.

Percy Lyte had never valued her as anything more than a source of hard cash and heirs. And when she’d proven deficient in the latter capacity, her husband’s thinly veiled contempt had eroded something vital within her. Something that Thorn’s honest, unconditional affection promised to nourish.

He had put aside his natural prudence to take a gamble for her sake, Felicity mused as the first feeble glimmer of daybreak gilded his strong, agreeable features. She, on the other hand, would need to curb her own daring impulses, lest they induce her to take a reckless gamble on Thorn Greenwood.

And risk losing far more than she could afford.

Thorn woke with such a violent start he might have dumped Felicity onto the floor of the carriage, if her arms had not been clasped so firmly around his neck.

The jolt did succeed in rousing her from her own sleep, though.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” she asked. “Did you dream about that awful highwayman?”

“Ah…something like that.” Thorn struggled to curb the sensation of panic that galloped within his chest.

He could scarcely recall his dream, now, though it had seemed so real and urgent only a moment ago.

He’d been playing some curious game of cards for stakes that had grown larger and larger. Until he could no longer fold his hand without being ruined. Fear and reckless confidence had warred within him when he’d finally lain down his promising handful of hearts, only to be soundly trumped by strange cards that looked like miniature banknotes.

As the winner raked in the pot, Thorn had realized that he’d risked both his honor and his heart. And lost.

“Where do you reckon we are now?” He concentrated on slowing his breath as he disengaged himself from Felicity.

Something about the unsparing light of day made it impossible for him to continue holding her in his arms, even within the privacy of her carriage. No matter how much he wanted to.

Felicity made an unsuccessful effort to smother a yawn as she peered out the window. She seemed no more anxious than Thorn to continue their awkward embrace. Perhaps he had only imagined the wistful warmth in her voice last night and that delicious brush of her fingers against his side whiskers.

“We’re coming to a small bridge,” she said. “I believe Newport lies just the other side of it, and I have good reason to hope we may catch up with our runaways there.”

As she told Thorn about her custom of stopping in that village when coming and going from Bath, Felicity shifted onto the seat opposite him. “Do you know the hour?”

He fished the venerable timepiece from his watch pocket and consulted it.

“After seven.” Thorn shook his head. “Your poor driver and footmen will be done in, to say nothing of the horses.”

“I hope we catch Oliver and your sister before they’ve had a chance to stir.” Felicity stared out the window, ignoring Thorn’s gaze. Or, perhaps, avoiding it. “Then we can all take a day’s rest before returning to Bath at our leisure.”

Thorn nodded and made vague noises of agreement, though with scant conviction.

Of course, he wanted to recover his scapegrace little sister before she mangled her reputation beyond repair. But that would mean parting from Felicity again. This time, with no chance of reprieve.

In spite of his disquieting dream, Thorn had trouble working up the least enthusiasm for that.




Chapter Five


Six hours after it had left Bath, Lady Lyte’s carriage rolled to a halt in front of a prosperous-looking inn. It stopped beneath a sign emblazoned with some royal coat of arms from years long past.

Felicity made herself look Thorn Greenwood in the face as she strove to keep her tone casual. “Surely Oliver and your sister won’t have gotten on the road yet.”

She was thoroughly ashamed of the way she’d lost her nerve last night. Screaming like a lunatic when Thorn and the highwayman had landed in the carriage, then pummeling her poor rescuer within an inch of his life. As if those weren’t bad enough, she’d further humiliated herself by bursting into tears, and clinging to Thorn like a frightened child.

That he had borne it all with such generous sympathy should have made her feel better…but it did not.

If the past thirty-odd years had taught Felicity Lyte one thing, it was that a woman must be prepared to look after herself and take her own part against the world. No one else could be trusted to do it for her—least of all anyone who wore breeches.

She could not afford to let Thorn Greenwood convince her otherwise.

On the seat opposite Felicity, Thorn stretched his long limbs as a wry chuckle rippled out of him. “If young Armitage can roust my sister out of bed at a reasonable hour of the morning, he’s a better man than I.”

The significance of his words must have struck him, for Thorn’s brow furrowed. “Your nephew would hire separate rooms for them, I hope?”

For some reason, that question rasped against Felicity’s tightly wound nerves.

“Of course Oliver will make certain they have separate lodgings,” she snapped. “My nephew is an honorable young man. Just because he was foolish enough to run away to Scotland with your sister doesn’t mean he’ll compromise her virtue. It’s not as though she were an heiress and he a fortune hunter.”

For over half a century, Lord Hardwick’s Marriage Act had made it more difficult for unscrupulous men to prey on naive young ladies of fortune. A truly determined number now chanced the long journey to Scotland where underage women could still wed without the consent of their families. Many an unprincipled scoundrel took the added precaution of relieving the young lady of her virginity during the journey.

Thorn glared at Felicity. “Are you accusing my sister of pursuing your nephew for his fortune?”

“She would not be the first.”

The words had barely left her lips before Felicity wished she’d bitten her own tart tongue. Whimsical and imprudent Ivy Greenwood might be. For all that, she seemed a warmhearted, unaffected little thing—unlike some of the avaricious creatures who’d stalked Oliver during their past several Seasons at Bath.

If she and Thorn found the young lovers at the King’s Arms, as Felicity was certain they would, she might never see him again after today. Perhaps if she picked a quarrel with him and they parted on bad terms, it might trouble them both less.

Felicity wished she could believe it.

Instead she feared the look of injured dignity in Thorn’s expressive eyes would plague her sleepless nights for years to come.

“It might surprise you how many men and woman form romantic attachments with no thought of fortune, madam.” He could have hurled the words at her like an accusation. Instead, Thorn spoke them in a tone of quiet forbearance that vexed Felicity even worse.

The acid retort flew out of her before she could contain it. “When there is no fortune involved, perhaps.”

Thorn did not flinch or strike back, yet something in his steady gaze told Felicity she had just diminished herself in his eyes.

At that moment, her young footman pulled open the carriage door.

Plucking his hat off the seat beside him, Thorn Greenwood prepared to debark. “Let us go collect our strays and be done with it, shall we?”

“By all means.” Felicity let him help her down from the high carriage box, acutely conscious that the chaste touch of his hand would probably be her last.

Once she had firm ground under her feet, she forced herself to pull her hand away. Then she swept into the King’s Arms, leaving Thorn to follow in her wake or not, as he chose.

She found the large entry hall abustle with a party of travelers anxious to make an early departure. Felicity peered around for any sign of Oliver or Ivy among the crowd, but saw none.

She did recognize the innkeeper’s wife, threading her way through the departing guests bearing a breakfast tray for others who would not stir from their lodgings until a more civilized hour.

Might a dish of buttered eggs and kippered herring nestle on that tray beneath the crisp white napkin? Felicity wondered. Oliver insisted a morning diet of fish and eggs stimulated his mental processes.

Once again, his aunt asked herself how an aloof scholar like Oliver Armitage had become entangled with such a flighty little chit as Ivy Greenwood. However it had come about, Felicity vowed to disentangle her nephew. Even if it meant threatening to disinherit him.

The innkeeper appeared just then to present the departing patrons with their bill.

The moment he spied Felicity, he left his other guests to tally their charges while he marched over to greet her with an exaggerated bow.

“Lady Lyte! A great pleasure as always, ma’am. We weren’t expecting to see you back from Bath for a few weeks yet. I fear your usual rooms have been let until the day after tomorrow, but of course we will endeavor to accommodate you as best we can. I remarked to Mr. Armitage just last night that his arrival was all the more welcome for being something of a surprise.”

“So he is here!” Dizzy with relief, Felicity barely refrained from clasping the fastidious retired soldier in an embrace that would have flustered him to death. “If you would be so good as to show us to Mr. Armitage’s room, I have an urgent need to speak with him.”

The innkeeper’s smile faded as he shook his head. “There must be some mistake, ma’am. Mr. Armitage and his lovely bride dined here last evening. But after that they left for Gloucester to spend the night.”

Behind her, Felicity sensed Thorn give a start at the word bride, though he said nothing.

“Gloucester?” she repeated. “Are you certain?”

“Indeed, ma’am. Mr. Armitage was most particular about it. I recollect thinking it a late hour for them to be on the road and hoping they’d be able to find vacant lodgings once they arrived there.”

The innkeeper glanced at his other guests, who looked impatient to be off. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, ma’am…?”

Felicity tried not to let her dismay show. “By all means.”

Once the innkeeper and his guests were occupied, she turned to Thorn. “Gloucester? What could have made Oliver press on so far? We always stop at The King’s Arms on our way to Trentwell.”

“I’d say the why is rather obvious, wouldn’t you?” replied Thorn. “They’re eager to reach Gretna as soon as they can. Besides, Armitage is a clever young fellow. No doubt it occurred to him that if you gave chase, this would be the first place you’d come looking.”

How dare Thorn Greenwood sound so calm and rational when her whole world had turned on its head? She had so counted on finding Oliver here and putting a quick stop to this whole troublesome business.

Felicity felt her gorge rise on a bilious tide. “If we keep driving, might we reach Gloucester before they move on?”

“It’s well over fifteen miles.” Thorn shook his head. “With market traffic, we’d do well to get there by noon. Even Ivy isn’t that excessive a slugabed.”

If Felicity could have got her hands on her nephew and Miss Greenwood, she would have throttled them both. The last thing she needed just then was to be chasing the length of the country after them.

“Besides.” Thorn gestured toward the window, through which Felicity could see her carriage. “We can’t simply pile back in and keep on driving. We need fresh horses, and your poor coachman and footman must get a little rest. Then there’s the small matter of that highwayman. We have to deliver him to someone in authority and swear out a complaint.”

Was the whole world conspiring against her? Felicity asked herself as her palms went clammy and her stomach grew more sour by the minute. If she hadn’t emptied it so thoroughly the night before, she might have been violently ill in front of a room full of strangers.

And, worse still, in front of Thorn Greenwood.

It would serve the woman right if he left her there, Thorn fumed. With his winnings from last night’s card game, perhaps he should pursue young Armitage and his sister on his own, leaving Felicity Lyte to fend for herself.

Except for those few sweet hours after he’d rescued her from the highwayman, Lady Lyte had made it abundantly clear she wanted neither his advice, his assistance nor his company. Why could he not wash his hands of her, as any rational man would?

Until recently, Thorn had prided himself on being a rational fellow. Then he’d stared into Felicity Lyte’s incomparable green eyes and lost himself.

At the moment, that vibrant green looked rather washed-out, while the rosy springtime hue of her complexion had blanched and chilled.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” He caught her icy hand in his. “You look dreadful.”

“And you have a great deal to learn about being a lady’s man, Mr. Greenwood.” Wrenching her fingers from his grip, Felicity looked as though she longed to slap his face with them.

“Of course I look dreadful. Why shouldn’t I? Woken out of a sound sleep to trundle over the countryside in the middle of the night. Accosted by a highwayman. And now with the prospect of chasing the length of England after my ungrateful nephew. I’d probably shatter a mirror if I looked in one.”

The other inn guests were casting inquisitive glances their way. Thorn detested few things worse than being an object of curiosity. He drew Felicity off to a little alcove by the main staircase.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re as lovely as ever. Only, you look wrought up…or ill.”

Before she could fire off a retort, he held up his palms in mock surrender. “Both of which you have good cause to be, I admit. For once, hold your tongue and listen to me. You need proper rest and food, as do your servants and the horses. I’ll arrange that with the innkeeper. Then, while you’re recovering from last night’s journey, I’ll hunt up someone to take that outlaw off our hands.”

For a wonder, Felicity did not interrupt him. She waited until he’d finished before asking, “What do you propose we do after that?”

Thorn tried to hide his surprise. He’d expected more of a battle from her. “After that we must talk. To decide on our next move.”

“Very well.”

“Do you mean it?”

The old verdant sparks leapt in her eyes once again, igniting an answering flame in Thorn’s formerly rational heart. “What manner of question is that? Do you think I oppose you for amusement?”

“Of course not,” Thorn lied. “I only meant—” What could he say that wouldn’t dig him deeper into trouble? “Never mind.”

The other guests, having settled their bill at last, departed with a maximum of noise and commotion. Thorn found himself glad of the distraction.

Once they had gone, he approached the innkeeper. “We will have to be on our way before nightfall, but in the meantime, Lady Lyte, her driver and her footman all need rooms in which to rest.”

The innkeeper’s eyes lit up. No doubt he relished the prospect of hiring out the same rooms twice in one day. “Always delighted to oblige her ladyship, sir.”

“The horses will need tending, as well.”

“I’ll make certain the hostlers know to take special trouble with them, Mister…”

“Greenwood. Hawthorn Greenwood.” Thorn steeled himself against the fellow’s meddlesome scrutiny. “I’m an old friend of Lady Lyte’s. Her nephew’s…er…bride is my sister.”

“Indeed, sir?” The innkeeper beamed, as people tended to do when speaking of Ivy. “A lively little creature. Not one I’d have picked for a serious young scholar like Mr. Armitage if I’d had the ordering of it. But love often goes by contraries, then, doesn’t it, sir?”

“Perhaps so.” Did that explain his own intense, wayward feelings for Felicity? Thorn wondered. “By any chance, did my sister or Mr. Armitage mention where they might lodge once they reached Gloucester?”

The innkeeper’s smile widened further. “As it happens, sir, they asked if I could recommend any place that might offer them a warm welcome even if they arrived at a late hour.”

“Did you?” Thorn strove not to sound as desperately interested in the information as he felt.

“I should say so, Mr. Greenwood. The wife’s cousin keeps an inn in the old part of town between the cathedral and the shirehall. It don’t get as busy as the big posting inns on the roads to London and Bristol. I told Mr. Armitage it would be a rare night he and his fair bride couldn’t find a bed there, no matter what hour they knocked.”

“I appreciate your advising them.” Thorn fished out a shilling from his card winnings. He offered it to the innkeeper, who made a token show of refusing before sliding the coin into his own pocket.

“I’ll just see to the rooms for Lady Lyte and her servants, Mr. Greenwood.”

“One more thing, if I may?”

“Aye, sir. What might that be?”

“We ran into a spot of trouble on the road from Bristol—a highwayman.”

“My life, sir!” The innkeeper’s eyes grew wide. “No one hurt, I hope. That scoundrel’s been making a right nuisance of himself all spring. You’re not my first guests to have been molested by him.”

“I hope we may be the last.” Thorn nodded toward the door. “We fetched the bounder along with us to give an account of himself before the magistrate. Whereabouts should I dispose of him?”

“I’d fetch him over to Berkeley, Mr. Greenwood.” The innkeeper cocked his thumb in a direction Thorn took to be northeast. “They can deal with him there and be obliged to you for the taking of him, I should think.”

As the innkeeper bustled off, Thorn turned back to Felicity, who had sunk down onto a nearby chair. He knew better than to comment on how she looked, but a qualm of guilt rolled low in his belly. She might have slept better stretched out on the carriage seat opposite him than awkwardly nestled on his lap.

He knelt before her and took one of her hands in his. It had warmed a little since he’d touched it a few moments earlier, but not much.

“The innkeeper tells me they can deal with our highwayman over in Berkeley. Will you be all right until I get back?”

“Of course I will.” Felicity sat up straighter. “I’m neither a child nor a tottering old dowager, Mr. Greenwood. I do not need a keeper. You’re quite welcome to cart that awful creature off to London for all I care. I can manage quite well on my own.”

The gall of the woman! Dismissing his concern for her as if he held no higher standing in her life than her driver or her footman.

The notion sent Thorn leaping to his feet again. “As well as you managed last night on the heath?”

Felicity shot him a withering look. “Ah! Here is the lecture you’ve been saving since last night. I doubt it will taste any less bitter, warmed over for breakfast.”

He had never seen this unpleasant side of her character during their time together. Thorn cursed himself. He’d been a fool to let himself fall under the spell of her wit, her spirit and her passion. Any man of sense might have guessed that such a vibrant rose could not lack for thorns.

Well, he was feeling the sting of them now.

“Last night you as good as owned you deserved a reprimand.” Thorn struggled to suppress the memory of Felicity burrowing into his embrace, sweetly repentant. “I tried to show a little forbearance, believing you’d already learned your lesson in more forceful terms than any words of mine could match.”

Felicity surged to her feet, a welcome color returning to her face. “Why, you pompous…How dare you scold me as if I was one of your flighty little sisters?”

“My sisters have more sense than—” Thorn choked back the rest of his words as another party of inn guests descended into the posting hall.

He forced himself to pitch his voice lower, though his anger had not abated. “We can resume this discussion in private when I return from Berkeley. In the meantime, I suggest you rest and take some food.”

“I told you, I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

If he stood there a moment longer, Felicity’s stubborn opposition might goad him to shake her. Worse yet, her nearness and the strange stirring friction between them might make him sweep her into his arms for a kiss so fierce and brazen it would fuel juicy gossip at the King’s Arms for years to come.

As Thorn Greenwood executed a crisp pivot on his heel and strode away from her, Felicity struggled to subdue the storm of emotions that raged inside her.

How could she have taken the man into her bed night after night without ever guessing his true character? She’d thought him quiet, gentle and amiable, not the sort to demand more than she could give him or make a nuisance of himself in her life.

That was part of the reason she’d chosen him as her lover over a number of other candidates who had far more to recommend them. How could she have guessed Mr. Greenwood’s accustomed mild manner masked an iron will that vexed her beyond bearing even as it excited a grudging respect?

The only thing she detested more than being bossed and bullied was being manipulated.

Perhaps some good had come of Oliver’s foolish elopement if it had opened her eyes to aspects of Thorn Greenwood’s temperament that she had either overlooked or willfully ignored. Now she could cast him off without any troublesome qualms of guilt.

Glancing out the window, Felicity spied the highwayman. Now that she got a good look at him in the belittling light of day, she could see he was no more than a spotty-faced youth. Damn his callow hide for giving her such a fright!

His hands were tied and bound to the pommel of his saddle. He appeared to be pleading with Thorn not to turn him in.

Quite against her will, a twinge of pity tugged at Felicity. The lad would almost certainly hang for his petty crimes—mischief that had probably sprung from some rash devilment of youth with no pause to consider the consequences. Just the kind of impulse that had propelled her to the altar with Percy Lyte at that age.

At least she’d survived her youthful mistake and learned from it. Felicity forced herself to look away. She gave a start when she discovered the innkeeper hovering nearby.





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