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 alaugh. 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
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 alaugh. 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
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