Chapter Ten
F elix kept his eyes closed as long as possible.
Perhaps if he pretended sleep, she’d appear as she had two mornings ago, and he could wake up with a kiss.
His body was ready for that. And more. But his wife was keeping her distance.
She’d become a shadow flitting away from him at every turn, watching him closely when they were forced to be together more than a handful of moments.
Waiting for him to continue what they’d started in this folly?
Waiting to run if he even flinched in her direction?
Stubborn woman.
They were good together. And if—no, when —he finally entered her body, it would likely ruin him for all others.
Not that his ruination hadn’t already begun.
When he’d set out to win a stranger for a wife, a leave-her-alone sort of wife, he’d not expected Caro.
He’d not anticipated how his body would retain all its youthful lust for her, how time would magnify it.
Time had also magnified his emotional control, though.
As a lad, he’d been at risk of falling for her body and soul.
Now he could delight in the body and block up the soul.
Look at how he was surviving this sojourn at Hawthorne.
The damn house sought to destroy him, but he was not letting it.
No reason he and Caro couldn’t have a physical relationship without risking their hearts.
Only after the parlor interlude, she wouldn’t let him close enough to argue his points!
He pushed to his feet with a groan, grateful for the clean mattress tick that had appeared in the folly two days ago.
Sleeping had become slightly less agonizing since then.
He had Caroline to thank for it, but when he’d tried to do so, she’d waved him off.
The cobwebs had disappeared quickly, swept away while he wasn’t looking.
She should have left them. They’d begun to accumulate when his parents were still alive, and generations of spiders had added to their tangle.
Death and birth, a never-ending cycle. He didn’t know if it was a comfort or a torture to think of it.
Perhaps it was best the cobwebs were gone.
Other luxuries had arrived as well. Yesterday, a pile of books and candles had appeared. Today, even more gifts populated the sparse space, as if he’d been visited by magic elves during the night. A rug to soften the marble, a bronze tub for bathing.
When was she dragging all these things out here?
And what did it mean? She clearly wanted him gone, wanted him out of her hair. So why make him comfortable? Why make him want to stay?
Not that he did.
He wanted her in his makeshift bed—or they could use her proper bed; he was not picky—until he deemed the house safe for a lone woman. Or, if their bed sport convinced her to join him in London—all the better. They could enjoy one another there in ease until Hawthorne was entirely mended.
Not delusional enough to believe she’d agree to that. To any of it.
But why? She’d enjoyed their kisses, the orgasm he’d given her.
Was it that neither of them wanted children? As he’d told her, they needn’t worry about that. There were ways around infant inconveniences. She might not be aware, though. He’d simply make her aware.
A knock on the door echoed across the small space.
Caro . He didn’t run for the door. But he didn’t walk either. He flung it open, knowing he wore nothing but trousers, low slung from the lack of braces holding them up. Soon the heat of her gaze would hit upon his chest. And lower. He tightened in anticipation. Now the time to educate her.
Or not.
A pair of giants stood outside the folly. Not Caroline at all.
Felix stepped outside, craning his neck up. “Who the hell are you?”
One of the men, a fellow with shockingly red hair and a gap between his teeth, shoved a wax-sealed letter at Felix’s chest. “From Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Ah. Yes. Help had arrived. “Come in, then, gentleman.” Felix quickly dressed while the men inspected his temporary lodgings.
“He’s the viscount?” one whispered.
“Livin’ in a folly?” the other added.
“I can hear you.” Felix finally opened the letter and read. “Freddy Shaw and Patrick Doyle. Who’s who?”
The red head raised a large, beaten hand. “Freddy.”
The other man, with a swollen ear and missing front tooth said, “Patrick. But folks call me Pat.”
“Pat and Freddy, welcome to Hawthorne.” A knot formed in his chest. He’d planned on leaving once the Black Widow’s footmen arrived. She’d have protection now, and she wouldn’t need him. He was done here. “Have you met its mistress yet?”
The men nodded.
Felix returned to the letter, reading, reading—what the… bloody hell .
“Lady Foxton was off to the village,” Pat said, failing to notice that Felix had balled the paper in his fist. “Seemed distracted.”
“What the hell does she mean?” Felix demanded, shaking the letter at them.
“Which part?” Freddy stuck the tip of his tongue between the gap in his teeth. “Your missus’s foggy brain? I can’t rightly say—”
“Not that. The letter! Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” Felix smoothed the paper out, reading again. “She says you’ll leave if I leave. That makes zero bloody sense. I’ve brought you here to stay so I can leave.”
Pat shrugged. “The Black Widow’s paying us extra to follow her orders.”
Conniving woman. He’d have to send her another letter, tell her in plain words what he thought of her meddling. Yes, at least he was in possession of two bruisers to watch after his wife, the exact sort the widow paid to guard the Lyon’s Den.
But… damn this was a complication. “I need to speak with Lady Foxton. You said she was in the village?”
They nodded.
“Who did you say she’s with?”
Freddy scratched his neck. “Didn’t. She was alone when she set off, but she said something about a Mrs. Smith.”
The teary-eyed chit they’d hired to work at Hawthorne.
Caroline had talked with her, comforted her, but about what she had refused to reveal.
She had also allowed the young woman to stay at Hawthorne and share a bed with Polly.
It wasn’t too difficult to figure out that the girl was in trouble of some sort. And Caro had decided to play savior.
How far would she go for such a role? He remembered Mr. Smith well, a big man who radiated irritation and set Felix’s nerves on edge.
“If Mrs. Dove-Lyon wasn’t entirely clear,” Felix snapped, “your sole purpose at Hawthorne is to guard my wife. That means following her about like you’re her damn shadow. Do you understand?”
They nodded enthusiastically.
“Even when she goes to town.”
“ Oooooh .” They had the realization at the same time and turned with wide eyes to leave the folly.
“Which way’s the village?” Pat turned back to ask.
Felix stomped into his boots and flung on a shirt. “I’ll go after her now. You remain here and take stock of the premises, learn your way around. I’d like a full report on any safety issues you encounter. Do you understand?”
More nods, countenances clearing.
Felix finished dressing then took off for the stables. He could write to the Black Widow later, inform her he was not to be so easily controlled.
Will you leave then?
His brainbox could shut right the hell up. Of course he couldn’t leave! Which meant the old widow held just as much control over him as she thought she did.
He saddled Troy and took off. If he’d been needing distraction from memory, he’d certainly gotten it, hadn’t he? In the form of dread creeping up his spine.
Caro was fine. Surely, she was fine.
The village of Dorking rose before him quickly, but he had no idea how to find her. He did know who she was looking for though, so he followed his nose to a bakery and asked for Mrs. Smith.
The baker, a slender woman with silver hair, got a look not in line with the heavenly scent of warm loaves. “She’s not allowed here. Her husband makes trouble.”
He was a rope stretched too far, and the bits and pieces of him were fraying, breaking. His patience was on its death bed, and he was tapping a heated rhythm on the floor with the toe of his boot. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“She helps Mrs. Collington, the seamstress, some days. Check there. Or, because Mr. Smith likes to keep his woman on a tight leash, try the smithy. He’s helping there today. Down the street and to the right.”
“Thank you.” Felix left the shop and led Troy down the street, soon finding the smithy—a sign flapping in the wind, its steel wares glinting in the sunlight. He saw Caro, too. “That was easy.” He tethered Troy to a hitching post and loped toward her.
Something was wrong. Her posture stiff and angular, her hands fists. He quickened his steps, pushing through two men and almost knocking a woman down.
He was stuck behind a cart when Caro bolted into an alley beside the smithy.
Felix climbed over the cart, darting and dashing. Where was she? What was happening? He reached the alley and peered into the shadowed dark beyond the forge fire burning nearby. Soot and metal and heat burned his skin and heightened the fear thumping his heart into an erratic rhythm.
There—shadows, sideways silhouettes, at the end of the alley. Three of them, two smaller—much smaller—than the third. Caro, Mrs. Smith, and the brawny husband. Who had his hand around Caro’s wrist. She stood between the husband and wife, her posture straighter than a blade forged by a master.
Mr. Smith walked her backward. He’d soon pin both women against a damp stone wall.
Not if Felix broke his damn legs first.