Deborah Hale - Lady Lyte's Little Secret

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.

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.