Chapter 22
L ydia watched Thorn’s valet with an unblinking stare. He stood at the door, pretending not to notice as he gazed out the window from across the room.
But he did notice.
Because every time she moved, he threw a side-eyed glance her way.
What a bastard Thornton was! He was turning into his own father, acting as if only his way was the right way. He didn’t trust her to sort everything out herself.
But didn’t I do the same thing when I tried to run off?
“Oh, shut up,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing her hands against the cloth around them.
The servant by the door threw her another quick glance.
Lydia exhaled. “Excuse me… Mr.— Ah, yes, Vlad? Can I call you Vlad?”
He threw her another glance, then lowered his chin in a tiny nod.
“Vlad, do you mind getting me some tea? I’m truly parched.”
He looked at her suspiciously, but instead of leaving the room as she’d hoped, he stepped a few feet to the right and rang the servants’ bell.
Ah, resourceful little fellow.
Soon, someone knocked on the door, and Vlad turned away for a hushed conversation. Lydia took the opportunity to try and untie the knots around her wrists. Thorn hadn’t tied them too tightly. If she twisted her arms just so, she could—
The door closed, and Lydia quickly sat up straight in bed before Vlad turned toward her again. Her hair was falling into her eyes, and she blew on it to clear her vision.
“Tell me, Vlad,” she asked, leaning forward to create a gap between her hands, “how long have you been in Lord Thornton’s employ?”
She didn’t know the lad, which meant he’d been hired after she left.
“Since Bucharest, my lady.”
Bucharest? Lydia started. She hadn’t known Thorn went to Bucharest. She hadn’t known he traveled at all.
It occurred to her suddenly—she didn’t know anything about him anymore. The passion between them still smoldered, but aside from their brief correspondence, where she’d pretended to be his fiancée, they knew nothing about each other.
They were practically strangers.
And now he had her tied up in his bedroom and was going to marry her.
It sounded so ridiculous she would’ve laughed—if she weren’t actually tied up in his bloody bedroom!
Art, her Art, the one she’d known all those years ago, had been extremely gentle. Timid, even. Not this self-assured beast of a man. But if she were honest… She quite enjoyed the change.
There was a knock at the door, and a maid appeared on the threshold. Vlad turned to assist her, and Lydia took the opportunity to finally twist her hand free of the bindings. She placed the cloth over her wrists, holding them together to appear as if she were still tied, as Vlad walked toward her with the tea tray.
The moment he turned away to place the tray on the bedside table, she sprang from the bed and dashed toward the door.
“Miss?” Vlad’s voice followed after her, but she didn’t look back. She tore through the hall and down the stairs.
A pretentious old butler raised a brow as she rocketed past him toward the doors. Was that old Cecil? Well, he hadn’t changed one bit. Random thoughts flew through her mind as she flung the door open… And collided straight into Thorn.
He caught her by the arms, frowning down at her. “And where exactly are you going?”
“Away,” she snapped. “From you.”
“My lord,” Vlad called breathlessly from behind her.
Thorn glanced around the street, then stepped closer, tightening the hood of his cloak over both their heads. “Get inside,” he growled.
“You can’t keep—”
His grip on her arms tightened. “Get in. Now. We’ll talk inside.”
Something in his voice made Lydia pause. He wasn’t just annoyed.
His fingers still snug around her upper arm, he walked her quickly back inside.
Without letting go of her, Thorn turned to his butler. “Did I have any correspondence last night?”
“There was an urgent missive from Wakefield Manor, my lord, but Lady Wakefield intercepted it.”
“That cunning witch,” he growled under his nose. “Is the carriage ready?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Vlad, collect my traveling valise. We’re going on a trip.”
“Thorn—” Lydia started, but he steered her toward the stairs.
“Someone was watching me,” he said as they ascended. “I thought I was being followed this morning, but I wasn’t certain. Now, I am. And the only reason someone might be watching me is if they’re looking for you. I was quite vocal at Hades’ Hell last night, asking around about you.”
They reached the first-floor landing and turned toward the corridor leading to his bedroom.
“And now, they’ve probably seen you dashing out of my house.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know who they are or what they want with you—throw you into the gaol or dole out their own punishment… But I propose we don’t find out. I just went to Hades Hell—”
Lydia whipped her head to face him. This was the last place she had expected him to go.
“I made a compelling offer to the owner, who is apparently my half-sister,” he continued evenly and emotionlessly as they reached his bedchamber. He opened the door, guiding her inside. “She’s going to try and rein in the damage she’s done. But it won’t be easy, and it’ll take a while.”
Lydia blinked a few times, making sure she hadn’t misheard him. “She is what ?”
“Yes, I know, I am still processing it myself.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how I feel about all that. And she obviously is not fond of me either.”
That explained why she wanted his ring, but… “She isn’t? And she still agreed to help you? Why? Why would she even—” Then it finally dawned on her. Her gaze dropped to her bare hand.
The ring. He’d given it away.
“Yes,” he said, as if reading her mind. “The point is, even after her retraction, the rumors will persist. Some people will never believe you’re innocent. So, for a while, until everything calms down, we need to leave.”
“ I need to leave,” she countered.
He shut the door behind them with a telling slam .
“Thorn,” she said softly. “I’m not going with you.”
“Why not?” he asked irritably.
“How can you ask me that? I can’t marry you!”
“Why. Not?” He spoke slowly, but his voice had a menacing edge. “You love me. Isn’t that enough?”
Lydia forced herself to regulate her breathing. “I loved you. Loved. In the past. I haven’t forgotten you, and there’s clearly passion between us, but it’s been ten blasted years! I don’t know if I love you now. Hell, I don’t even know you. And you don’t know me.”
The pain on his face nearly brought Lydia to her knees. She wasn’t lying. Her feelings were jumbled and confused. She wanted him—yes. Their last encounter had proved that much. But did she love him? She didn’t know.
What she did know was that she never wanted him to suffer because of her. And if she stayed, that was bound to happen.
“I know you,” he insisted. “And I know you can be happy with me. In your letters, you said you love watching the stars all night. Well, you can do that in Wakefield. The skies are clear there… Clearer than in London, anyway.”
She waved his declaration away. “I made that all up! I needed something believable to say in the letters without raising suspicion. Do you want to know the truth? I had no choice but to watch the stars—I had no roof over my head for years. You don’t know me. We have nothing in common.”
His face twisted in pain, his eyes falling closed for a moment. “Yes, we do. We both love to read. We have a similar sense of humor—if those letters are any indication. We’ve both suffered without each other for the past decade. We make each other laugh. We understand each other’s pain. You make my hurt disappear just by being near me.”
“And that’s enough for you to marry me?” Lydia whispered. “To make me your future marchioness? I am no lady. I have no talents. I will not fit in.”
“Yes, you will,” he countered. “You already do. And maybe you have no useless talents like dancing or painting—although I would love to watch you do the latter and cover yourself in paint—but you do have a talent for survival. You fit in anywhere, even in a place as rigid as London society. You tricked the stuffiest ballrooms in London into accepting you. You pick up on social cues easily, and you make people comfortable in your presence. All these traits are important in a marchioness.
“You know the life of a struggling commoner. You know the life of an aristocrat. You can be of help to me, to the people on my estates.
“And yes, you are a talented thief. You stole my heart. And there is no getting it back.
“I loved you as Lily. I love you as Lydia. And I will love you as the Marchioness of Wakefield or any other iteration of yourself. I am not about to let you out of my sight. Not again.” His tone softened. “And if your love for me has passed… then I’ll just have to remind you.”
Warmth unfurled inside Lydia, and she stood frozen, unable to speak or move. Damn if this man wasn’t already winning her heart back.
“Besides”—Thorn turned on his heel and walked toward the dressing room—“we have forever to get reacquainted.”
* * *
I don’t know if I love you.
Her words sliced through him, cutting deep, leaving him gasping for air.
All those years he had spent searching for her, waiting for her, mourning her—he had never once considered that her love for him might have faded.
His love for her hadn’t. So why would hers?
When they had finally reunited, when he had felt her passion, he had been certain she still loved him. Hell, she had written it in her note!
But perhaps it had only been a farewell. An excuse to leave him.
Thorn shook the thought from his mind and refused to entertain it further. He meant what he had said—if she didn’t love him now, she would by the end of their journey.
He helped Vlad collect his necessary belongings and asked the maids to pack food for the road.
Looking through the valise Thorn had retrieved from her carriage, Lydia frowned. “Should I perhaps wear a wig?” She pulled out a beautiful dark brown one.
Puzzled, Thorn raised a brow. “Why?”
“Because you say you’re being followed. There’s a good chance they’re still watching the house. If they saw me here, they might be waiting for me to leave so they can… well, do whatever it is they intend to do.”
Thorn grimaced. He didn’t want to think about what they might want from Lydia, and he’d rather not find out. “Then perhaps a wig won’t help either. They must know there aren’t any other women in the house.” He tapped his lips in thought. “I have an idea. Do you have a cloak?”
“Yes.” She pulled it from her valise.
He flashed a quick smile. “Wait here.”
With a wink, Thorn took both the cloak and wig and left the room. He ordered Lydia’s driver to set off immediately and wait for them at a small inn just outside of London. Then he ordered a curricle to be prepared. After that, he had a brief conversation with Vlad before returning to the bedchamber.
Lydia watched expectantly as Thorn laid out a livery outfit belonging to his tiger, then tossed a white powdered wig onto the bed and spun a hat on his finger with a flourish.
Lydia raised a brow. “Is that for me?”
“Yes,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. “I arranged for the only lady currently present in this house to leave with all haste, wearing a dark brown wig and your cloak. In the meantime, I will take a jaunt in a curricle to a nearby inn just outside of London with my tiger.” He waved the hat toward the clothes.
Lydia laughed. “Very clever.”
“Clever enough to make you fall back in love with me?” Thorn joked, though his heart clenched at the words.
The laughter died on her lips but not in her eyes. She reached for the hat, and as he relinquished it, their fingers brushed.
He cleared his throat. “Do you need help getting dressed?”
She shook her head. “No, I shall be fine.”
“Can I trust you not to escape through the window?”
She threw a glance toward the window and smirked. “I have no desire to get caught outside your window. So, yes, you can trust me.”
He hesitated, unwilling to leave her even for a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll see you in a minute,” he finally said, stepping out of the room.
While Lydia changed, he ensured that Vlad had dressed the stable boy properly. For this particular assignment, they needed a skilled horseman. It was a lucky coincidence that Jack, the stable boy, was about the same height as Lydia. In disguise, he looked entirely convincing.
“My lord.” Cecil appeared by his side. “You have a missive from Mr. Prescott.”
Fuck . Thorn had completely forgotten about his meeting with his bride—his former bride. He only hoped he hadn’t made enemies with his disregard for her.
He tore open the envelope and quickly skimmed the note.
The betrothal contract had been withdrawn. There would be no further communication.
Thorn placed the letter on the side table. He would have to mend those bridges after returning to London. He hadn’t meant to humiliate either Mr. Prescott or his daughter, and he would do what he could to repair the damage.
For now, he pushed the thought from his mind.
Lydia soon joined them downstairs, looking entirely unrecognizable in her disguise.
Perfect .
They made their way outside, and Thorn lit a cheroot, scanning the area. He saw no one lurking in the shadows, but the uneasy feeling of being watched had not subsided.
He discarded the cheroot and climbed into the curricle while Lydia hopped onto the back step, gripping a strap tightly. Just as Thorn pulled on the reins, his vehicle rolling along the cobblestones heading west, Jack—wearing Lydia’s disguise—rushed out of the gates and galloped in the other direction.
They drove for a few miles before Thorn turned into a narrow street and stopped. “Did you see anyone follow us?” he asked Lydia.
“No, but I did see two horsemen gallop after Jack.”
Thorn nodded. “He’s a skilled rider. I’m certain he can outride them. I instructed him to hide behind the trees and shed his disguise a few miles away. Hopefully, that will be enough to fool them.”
Thorn flicked the reins again, this time heading north. They continued in silence, the rhythmic turning of the wheels and the steady tik-tok of hooves the only sound between them.
I don’t know if I love you.
The words still stung.
Thorn couldn’t quite shake them off.
He had searched for her for ten long years, and somehow, she had become bolder, wittier, and more radiant than before. She had made him fall in love with her all over again through her letters and then again when they had finally met face-to-face.
He kept tumbling deeper and deeper in love with her every time he saw her, heard her, felt her.
And he didn’t think he could go on living without her.
No.
He would convince her to stay—no matter the cost.
He had to.
Even if it spelled his ruin.
* * *
They reached the inn about an hour later. Lydia had watched the road the entire time, and though it didn’t seem like anyone was following them, that didn’t mean no one was. Nor did it mean their ploy had worked. It only meant she hadn’t seen anyone—and she understood the difference all too well.
They stopped in front of the inn, and Lydia held the horses while Thorn disembarked, keeping up appearances.
“We need to leave right away,” she told him. “Go into the inn, have a tankard of ale, and weave tales of where you’re going. Let them believe you’re alone. That way, if anyone is following and asking around, they’ll think I’m not with you.”
“And what are you going to do?” Thorn asked, adjusting his clothing as if merely stretching his limbs, not sharing confidences with his tiger.
“I’ll bring around the carriage, and we’ll leave from there.”
“Good.” Thorn adjusted his lapels and walked into the inn without looking back.
Lydia led the curricle toward the back of the inn, second-guessing every choice that had led her to her current predicament—traveling to Scotland with a marquess’s heir.
It would be far more rational to head for Dover instead. In two days, she could be on a ship to France, far from scandal, from danger, from the threat of gaol.
But Thorn was adamant about going to Scotland. And perhaps… she could find a temporary home there. She’d heard that her blacksmith friend, Eugene, had returned to Scotland. Maybe he would help her settle there now that she had the means.
She was not going to marry Thorn. She would simply have to make him understand.
A viscount could not marry a thief.
If she were caught, she would be hanged. And even if she were acquitted, she would be a pariah in society.
Miss Monroe might try to remedy the situation, but Lydia wasn’t convinced she could—even if she wanted to.
The logical choice was to part ways.
But the heart didn’t understand logic, and hers cried inside her chest at the mere thought of leaving him.
Lydia quickly found her carriage and asked the coachman to move Thorn’s valise from the curricle. In the meantime, she slipped inside and waited. A few minutes later, safely tucked away, the carriage rolled toward the main doors of the inn.
She pressed herself into the corner, making herself as small as possible so no one would see her if the door opened. Luckily, she didn’t have to stay in that position long. Soon, Thorn climbed inside and slid onto the seat beside her, bringing with him the scent of warm meat pies.
As soon as the carriage started moving, Lydia pulled off the hat and powdered wig, loosening her hair. She sat up more comfortably, stretching out her legs.
Thorn handed her a pie wrapped in a clean white cloth and a flask. “Here, this is for you,” he said.
For me? Lydia hesitated for a moment. It had been years since anyone had snuck food to her. “Where’s your food?”
He shrugged. “I’m not hungry right now, and we have sandwiches in the basket for later. I just couldn’t resist bringing you a freshly baked pie.”
Lydia studied him—this nonchalant man—warmth spreading through her entire body and settling in her cheeks. She took a bite of the juicy steak pie and moaned in delight.
She hadn’t eaten since the night before, and only now did she realize how starved she was.
“And this?” she asked around a bite, lifting the flask to her face.
“It’s ale. I wasn’t sure if you drank anything stronger than wine, and I don’t usually carry wine in a flask.”
She hid a smile.
He had thought of her. Back at the house while preparing for the road and then at the inn.
It shouldn’t have been surprising—he had said he loved her. And all those years ago, in the short time they had spent together, he had always cared for her.
But still… it felt nice to be cared for again.
“So, what is the plan, exactly?” she asked after taking a sip of the ale.
He shrugged. “We’re going to Gretna Green to get married. Then we’ll return to Wakefield to declare our marriage to my father so I can claim my inheritance when he dies. After that, we’ll stay in Wakefield until the rumors about you die down, and then we can go back to London.”
He was unwavering in his conviction. And Lydia… Lydia was slowly starting to warm to the idea of being his wife.
All this time, she had thought he didn’t want her—that he thought her beneath him. The bitterness had been eating away at her, but if she had just spoken to him…
That was easier said than done.
She had tried to reach him for years without success. His father had blocked every attempt. And with her sick mother, she had neither the means nor the opportunity to search for him. By the time her mother had died, she had been too heartbroken, too bitter to even try .
How was she supposed to know?
“How can you be so certain that life with me will be better?” she asked.
He frowned. “Better than what?”
“Than the one without me.”
He turned to her, confusion lining his features as if he didn’t understand the question.
She took another bite of pie under his watchful gaze, suddenly self-conscious.
Then, he smiled. “Because it already is.”
Lydia swallowed with a loud gulp. What was one even supposed to say to that?
His gentle smile turned wry, and then he turned to look out the window. “Finish your food and then try to get some rest. It’s going to be a long journey.”