Lady Lyte's Little Secret
Felicity Lyte Was In a QuandaryHow could she tell her cherished paramour of his impending fatherhood? Hawthorn Greenwood, despite his straitened circumstances, would surely make a responsible, honorable offer of mariage–which Felicity could never accept. For she would only wed him in truebound love–or not at all!Thorn Greenwood had thought to but share an idyllic Season with Lady Lyte–and instead found his soul's partner. But Felicity had abruptly ended their liaison. Did she think him a fortune hunter? A rank falsehood that, for the only wealth he sought was the bounty of her love!
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“Take one step, and I’ll toss your clothes on the fire!”
“What’s gotten into you, woman?” A grimace of pain twisted Thorn’s features as he lurched to his feet. “You’re not my mother, for pity’s sake. You don’t even want to be my mistress anymore. So leave off trying to coddle me.”
He tried to take the threatened step, but the strength of his legs clearly failed to match the strength of his will. He staggered toward Felicity, who mustered all her strength to push him back onto his bed. At the last instant, his hand closed around her wrist and pulled her down on top of him.
The indignation she tried to summon melted like summer hail.
A bewildering sense of completeness stole over her as the fleet skip of her heart tangled with the strong, swift beat of Thorn’s until it became one thrilling, intricate rhythm…!
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Whitefeather’s Woman
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The Wedding Wager
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A Gentleman of Substance
“This exceptional Regency-era romance
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Deborah Hale has outdone herself…”
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#640 THE FORBIDDEN BRIDE
Cheryl Reavis
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#642 HALLIE’S HERO
Nicole Foster
Available from Harlequin Historicals and DEBORAH HALE
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A Gentleman of Substance #488
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Lady Lyte’s Little Secret #639
To Graham McDonald,
nuclear engineer, rock climber
and all-around answer to a maiden’s prayer,
as well loved by his sisters as Thorn Greenwood.
Nobody deserves a “happily ever after” more than you,
Big Red!
Contents
Chapter One
Bath, England
May 1815
“Felicity!”
The sound of her name, bellowed in a resonant masculine voice from the entry hall of her Bath town house, roused Lady Felicity Lyte from a restless doze.
It must be after midnight. What could Thorn be doing here at this unholy hour?
Not that Mr. Hawthorn Greenwood was a stranger to Number 18 Royal Crescent after dark. Quite the contrary. A mere two nights ago, at this very hour, he had been warming the bed beside her, serenely unaware that his days as her lover were numbered.
Until this moment, she’d had no communication with him concerning the polite note in which she’d terminated their discreet love affair.
Off in the distance, Thorn roared her name again. Felicity heard his footsteps thunder up the stairs. Her pulse fluttered in her throat, as she threw off the bedclothes and groped for her dressing gown.
She’d never heard Thorn Greenwood raise his voice. Nor move with anything but quiet, temperate steps. The racket of his current approach frightened Felicity just a little—and stirred her a great deal.
The man must be well-foxed, she decided as she thrust her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown and fumbled in the dark to tie the sash. Had he fortified himself at some fashionable drinking establishment, then come here intent on begging her to take him back? Perhaps to demand some better account of why she’d decided to cast him off so abruptly?
The notion that he cared enough to demand or beg anything gave Felicity a queasy sensation that was not altogether unpleasant. Rather like looking out at a breathtaking vista from an alarming altitude.
Much as she longed to, she could not afford to continue her enjoyable love affair with Thorn Greenwood. Neither did she dare tell him the true reason why.
Darting the length of her bedchamber, she threw the door open just as Thorn came skidding to a halt before it. Expecting to encounter the reek of spirits, so familiar from her experience with her late husband, Felicity was surprised when she smelled nothing of the kind.
In the faint glow cast by a night lamp in the upstairs hall, Thorn looked perturbed to a degree Felicity associated with immoderate drinking. His greatcoat was unbuttoned, his hat absent altogether, and his dark hair ruffled either by the wind or his own haste. His eyes, usually the calm, steadfast brown of freshly turned earth, now flashed with the sparks of flint struck against flint.
Gazing up at Thorn as he towered over her, his broad shoulders and muscular torso filling out his greatcoat, Felicity had to anchor herself against the intense attraction that threatened to propel her into his arms.
If only he’d come to confront her any time but now—anywhere but here. Late at night, on the threshold of the room where they’d made love so often. Yet, not often enough. If they held their breaths and listened, they might hear her bed calling them with its sensual siren song.
