Lady Lyte's Little Secret. Deborah Hale
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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.