You Only Love Twice by Elizabeth Thornton Page A

a toothless grin. He’d been expecting her, and so had the mare. Tulip whinnied to attract Jessica’s attention.
    “She wants her sugar,” said Joseph.
    He was a big man, with muscular arms and shoulders and thick-knuckled hands. Jessica could easily discern the fighter he must have been in his prime. He never spoke of that life, but she’d heard that he’d given it up when he’d accidentally killed an opponent.
    He set the wheel down. “Heard about your pa and it’s sorry I am, right sorry.”
    It shouldn’t matter, Jessica told herself. It was foolish to grieve for a father she couldn’t remember. “That’s all right, Joseph,” she said. “It happened three years ago, and I don’t remember him.”
    He wiped an arm over his brow. “I can’t remember my pa, either, and from what I knows, it’s a blessing. Light’s not so good. Better stop now.”
    This was typically Joseph, thought Jessica. He said what he had to say and not one word more. He didn’t go in for displays of emotion or hand out advice. This was as close as he would come to doing either.
    As he tidied away his tools, she looked around the barn. It was spotlessly clean. The cow and her calf were huddled together in one pen, and in another, Tulip was standing by the bars, eyes soulfully trained on Jessica. Laughing, Jessica approached, felt in her pocket and produced a small lump of sugar. Tulip puckered her lips andswiftly gobbled it. Jessica laid her cheek against the mare’s neck and inhaled. She loved the smell of horses.
    “You’s country bred.” When she looked up, Joseph went on, “You’s no fear of animals. Now the sisters”—he flashed another toothless grin—“they’s afeared to go into the henhouse.”
    Jessica laughed. It was perfectly true. The sisters would rather muck out the barn than face an angry hen who didn’t want to give up her eggs. But if she was country bred, she had no memory of it.
    Leaving Joseph to tidy away and lock up, she wandered outside. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, when her chores were done and she had time to explore.
    She walked beyond the outbuildings, downhill, toward a forest of trees that seemed faintly menacing in the fading light. When she came to the bridle path, she halted. The way down was soon lost to view in the dense underbrush and stands of trees. She was sure that somewhere down that path, her Voice had lain in wait for her father as he’d made his way home from the Black Swan.
    Her heart picked up speed and her breathing became quick and shallow. She gave one last look behind her, to the cluster of buildings that made up Hawkshill. It all looked so safe and solid. The fading rays of the sun were caught in the manor’s many small-paned windows and winked back at her. Below her, everything was in shadow; everything was silent. With a long, trembling breath, she picked up her skirts and started down the incline.
    For the first little while, the shadows blurred and flickered, but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could see her way quite clearly. The path was wide and smooth and was obviously still in use. At one point, it branched off to the right. Here she stopped, not because she was uncertain of the way, but because she knew that if she followed the fork, it would take her to Lucas’s house.
    Walton Lodge . She said the name softly, hoping to evoke a memory of the place, but all that came to her was what the sisters had told her over dinner. The Lodge, Lucas had told them, had been his principal residence until he’d come into his uncle’s title and fortune. Now he owned a house in London and an estate in Hampshire, but Walton Lodge would always be his home, and it had given him a great deal of pleasure to fix it up, when he’d had the money to do it.
    There was a mother and a young ward, the sisters had told her, but they lived in London. It was a comforting thought. She did not think Lucas’s mother would welcome her back with open arms, not