“My question was merely what was the nastiest trick you’d ever played on another. How was I to know of your alarming penchant for ruining the undergarments of the female staff?” She could feel his smile against her skin.
In another half-dozen breaths, she’d be too far gone, so she offered up the first question that came to mind. “When you were a young lad, what did you dream of being one day?”
“Myself.” His left hand crept to her other breast. “And I’m damn glad I grew up to be me too.”
“Be serious, Alex.”
“Oh, very well. Prime Minister.” He opened her dressing gown and bared her breasts. “And now I’m quite done with question and answer for today.”
“Prime Minister?” Her breath seemed to freeze within her lungs. She shooed his hands away from her and yanked the twain ends of her wrapper together again.
He raised an imperious brow. “What’s wrong with that? It’s a noble office, when held by the proper party, of course. And by proper party, I mean Liberal.”
“Ever the politician.” The words were said in a light tone, but as she said them, her heart gave a great pang. She needed to know more about that side of him, the man he’d spent the last seven years becoming until their mad romance had interrupted it all. “I scarcely know anything of your politics save the pamphlets on reform I read. Tell me about it.”
“Christ, Cleo, this isn’t the time.”
“What better time than now?” She shifted in his embrace so that she was no longer plastered against him. “I feel as if there is another Thornton who I know so little. I want to know that man.”
He growled. “This isn’t about Miss bloody Cuthbert, is it?”
His frustration lightened her spirits, but only a bit. “Alex, don’t be a bear.”
“I believe I warned you about my propensity for morning bearishness.”
Cleo wrinkled her nose in thought. “Is bearishness a word?”
“Likely not.” He dipped his head down and gave her a thorough kiss.
When he would have deepened it, she pulled back. “I want to know more about you. For heaven’s sake, we were lovers back then but I didn’t even know you. I certainly hadn’t an inkling as to your political endeavors. Now you want to marry me, but you won’t even share your thoughts with me.”
“I’m sorry, love.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “What would you have me tell you?”
“Why politics? Why reform? It’s not often that a Peer of the Realm concerns himself with the housing problems in poor East End districts, or in the conditions of the workhouse.”
Alex shrugged, his expression turning pensive. “I honestly don’t know how it all started. I think maybe it was my paternal grandmother who was always working for the London poor. After you threw me over, my life changed. I met Robin Steele, the great reformer, and where others thought him a raving pain in the arse, I saw his vision. He took me with him on trips through the streets of London. We met oyster men in St. Giles and costermongers and boardmen in Whitechapel and laborers in Covent Garden. For the first time, I started seeing those men as people with wives and children with empty bellies at home living in rat-infested flats in seedy rooks. And I knew I could try to change it. In the world of politics, nothing happens with ease or haste, but I knew my voice would be heard where their voices would not.”
“You are a very special man, Alexander de Vere,” she murmured, cradling his face in her palm. “So many gentlemen are content to fritter away their lives in their clubs.”
“I’m not an angel, darling. I like my club as well as the next chap. It’s not as if I go about reading parliamentary blue books all day.” He gave her a self-derisive grin.
“You know what I mean.”
“I may have taken an interest in reform, but never accomplished anything really, save publishing a handful of pamphlets no one ever read. So you see? No saving the world for Alexander de Vere. I dare say the political sphere shan’t miss me much.” He turned his head and dropped a moist kiss on her hand. “Nor shall I miss it.”
Cleo allowed him to draw her back into his embrace, wishing she could believe him. Just to hear the passion in his voice when he spoke of going about the streets of London with Robin Steele convinced her that he was not ready to give up his position. She’d read his pamphlets and they were brilliant. No, this man was not meant to be a country gentleman. As Miss Cuthbert had so fervently said, he was destined to be a distinguished leader. And he could never again occupy a position of high office if he aligned himself with a married woman.
Alex peeled her dressing gown from her shoulders and it fell in a soft caress against her bare skin. He filled his hands with her breasts and met her gaze, his eyes blazing. “Kiss me, sweet.”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with all the love bursting within her. “I love you, Alex,” she whispered against his mouth, praying as she said the words that her love would be strong enough to enable her to make the hard decisions facing her in the weeks ahead.
A messenger rode in the next morning at dawn and set all of Marleigh Manor into a frenzy. Precisely ten minutes after the strange man rapped at the front door, discreet tapping sounded at Thornton’s bedchamber door. When the first round of tapping met with failure, a second, more prodigious series began. Cleo heard it first, stirring in Alex’s arms and blinking into the semi-darkness.
“Alex.” She shook his shoulder. “Darling, there’s someone at the door.”
“Damned impertinence,” he muttered. “Ignore it and it’ll go away. If it’s that new footman again, I’ll have his bollocks.”
A throat cleared on the other end of the door. “Your lordship? I do apologize for the disruption, but there is an urgent matter.”
“Nothing could be urgent enough,” he grumbled. “I’ll bloody well give him urgent.”
“Alex, you’re being a bear again.” She pressed a kiss to his sulky lips. “I think it must be something of import, else your valet would not disturb you.”
“My lord, it is the Prime Minister,” came his valet’s much-aggrieved voice from the hall.
“Good Christ.” Alex shot up as if a poker straight from the hearth had come into contact with his backside. “Not here, man?”
“No.” The valet popped his head in the door, light from the hall shining a slice on the floor. He kept his gaze carefully averted. “Not here, your lordship. In London. There’s a man here to see you below. He says the Prime Minister has taken ill and the situation is most grave.”
With an ugly curse, Thornton threw back the bed covers. “Tell him I’ll be with him shortly.”
“The Prime Minister is ill?” Cleo gathered the bed clothes around her for modesty’s sake. “Good heavens, what could be the matter?’
His gaze was troubled as it met hers—that much she could discern even in the low light. “It can’t be good if they’ve sent a man for me.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I hope it’s not…” His voice broke. “God.”
“Let me know what you learn.”
“Of course.” He began to throw on his hastily discarded evening clothes from the previous night.
His valet cleared his throat from the doorway. “My lord, may I assist?”
Oh dear. This was most awkward. Ordinarily, Cleo made a prudent exit before the servants were about. If they were in her chamber, Alex did the same. However, his valet’s hesitation in the hall this morning bespoke the man’s knowledge of their clandestine arrangement. She scooted deeper into the cocoon of bedclothes, too embarrassed to speak.
“I’ll manage,” Thornton growled, buttoning his shirt.
In less than a minute, the door slammed closed behind his back. Shivering and unaccountably cold, Cleo lay in bed wondering if she should return to her own chamber or remain. The ramifications of this early morning messenger’s visit assailed her as she waited. If the Prime Minister’s health was compromised, where did that leave Thornton? Undoubtedly, he would be needed not only back in the
city but also as a bulwark within the Liberal Party. He would not be free to pursue a relationship with her, nor could she expect it of him. It seemed the hard decisions were facing her with more speed than she had anticipated yesterday.
Unable to keep still, she rose from the bed and sought out her dressing gown. She lit the gas lights and paced the length of the chamber. Twisting her hands together in agitation, she made four passes of the room before the door clicked open once more. It was Alex, his countenance solemn.
“Alex?” Her heart trebled its beat in fear.
He reached her in three strides, grasping her arms in a bracing grip. “I’m sorry, Cleo.”
“How bad is it?”
“It’s desperate, I’m afraid. Gladstone’s terribly ill. I’ve sent a message to my own doctor to attend on him. Even the queen has sent her doctors, though she despises the Prime Minister.” He paused. “He’s been asking for me. Apparently, he’s with fever and he’s in a weakened state. They don’t think…they do not know whether he’ll survive.”
“Dear God.” Understanding dawned. He was going to go to the Prime Minister. He was leaving her. Despite everything he’d said, his old life was intruding. “You’ll go to him.”
“I’m afraid I must.” He plowed a hand through his hair. “This couldn’t be happening at a worse time. Leaving you is the very last thing I want to do.”
She could not accompany him. They were not husband and wife. The absolute truth of her position struck her then. She was his mistress.
Numb, Cleo nodded. “Of course you must go. You will write to me as soon as you arrive?”
“Yes.” Sighing, he lowered his mouth to hers. “Wait here for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Of course,” she repeated.
“I love you, Cleo.”
“And I love you.” She gave him a tremulous smile. She knew now that it wasn’t enough. Before he returned to her, she would have to leave.
He pulled away. “I must leave now. There’s not a moment to be wasted.”
Cleo caught his hand in hers and raised it to her lips for a kiss. “Travel with care. I shall include the Prime Minister in my prayers.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Cleo did not waste much time in preparing herself for what she knew in her heart she had to do. After Alex left for London, she penned a hasty letter that she asked Bridget to post for her. With a calm she didn’t feel, she prepared herself for the breakfast table. She refused to show the dowager even a hint of weakness. Cleo clipped her favorite diamonds to her ears, applied some orris root fragrance to her wrists and gave herself a final inspection in the looking glass.
So much had transpired to change her forever and all in just a mere few weeks. The woman staring back at her looked older, sadder and yet somehow wiser. Her hair was the same black, eyes the same green, nose tipped up a bit at the end. Yes, she remained Cleopatra Harrington Bennington, Countess of Scarbrough, thoroughly heartbroken woman determined to carry on with head high.
She carried that knowledge with her like a breastplate into the battle awaiting her at the breakfast room. Thankfully, she came across her sisters en route, sparing her from having to take breakfast alone with the dowager, who was already settled at the head of the table in the absence of Alex. Cleo sailed into the room as if she had not a care in the world and took a seat a few places down from the dowager. Tia and Helen flanked her.
Cleo waited for the footman to serve her before speaking. “Good morning, my lady.”
The dowager sniffed and continued cutting away at the contents of her plate.
Helen slanted a knowing look in Cleo’s direction. Cleo attempted a nonchalant smile, but she quite feared it more resembled a grimace. She accepted a cup of hot cocoa from the footman and sipped before making a further attempt at conversation.
“I do so love a good chocolate in the morning. Do not you, my lady?”
The only ensuing sound was that of cutlery on china.
Cleo cleared her throat and replaced her cup in its saucer with more force than required. “My lady, I thought it best to inform you of our plans. That way, you may run the household accordingly. My sisters and I will be returning to Harrington House.”
Abruptly, the dowager gave an imperious nod to the unfortunate footman. Cleo noted for the first time the poor fellow wore a powdered wig and livery. Already, Alex’s mother had made her mark upon the Manor. He was not a man who favored the pomp of servants arrayed in outmoded attire. The footmen wore simple livery here and no scratchy wigs. However, the dowager had already been at her best to undo that effort at liberalism.
As the footman pulled back her chair, the dowager intoned, “You may instruct Lady Scarbrough’s people to prepare her carriage. We should not like to delay her a moment longer than absolutely necessary.” She paused in arranging her voluminous skirts. “Please convey to Cook that the kippers were wholly unacceptable. Indeed, I could not eat them this morning. My constitution is quite delicate, you understand.” Then, still ignoring Cleo and her sisters, the insufferable woman whisked herself from the room.
Helen sighed after she’d gone. “I’m sure I’ve never met a more unpleasant woman.” She kept her voice low enough to avoid it carrying.
Tia giggled. “Did you see the footman? He looked as if he were about to shite himself.”
“Tia!” Cleo was compelled to chastise her minx of a sister. Well, she supposed it was either that or break into a fit of hysteria. Indeed, she found it wondrous—and not in a happy sense—that the world should go on so much the same when everything in it poised on the brink of ruin.
“What?” Tia blinked in feigned innocence. “Ravenscroft taught me the phrase.” She broke into a grin. “But I rather like it.”
“I might have known.” Rapscallion though he was, Cleo found it hard to hold any anger against him.
“Why are we off to Harrington House?” Helen’s voice dripped with curiosity. “Of course I’ve had it from my maid that Thornton’s gone. It will never cease to amaze me how quickly belowstairs learns all. Sometimes, I’m convinced they know we’ve sneezed before we do.”
“Both are true.” Cleo poked at the toast on her plate, appetite gone. “Alex left for London this morning to go to the Prime Minister’s sickroom.”
“You can’t mean to leave here just because of that odious mother of his?” It was Tia’s turn for a question.
“No.”
“Why then, darling?” Tia gripped her hand to stop its automaton-like movements.
Cleo attempted to form a response. She opened her mouth, moved her lips and let out an appalling blubber.
“What is it, dear?” Helen patted her opposite arm, concern lacing her tone. “Why the rush to Harrington House? You can’t have had a row with Thornton?”
She shook her head, sniffing and staring at her uneaten toast.
“What then, darling?” Tia prodded. “You must tell us.”
“I’m leaving him,” she confessed on a rush of air that left her lungs, hollowing her out. Then she promptly burst into tears.
Thornton landed in London with an almost audible thud. The abrupt transition from country idyll to city smog and traffic—particularly bad even though much of elite London society had long since left in favor of grouse shooting and country fetes—was not lost on him. Nor was the sudden loss of the woman he’d come to take for granted by his side and in his bed. True, it would be over soon enough and they would be back together, the good Lord and the Prime Minister’s health willing. But it was not a happy return for him.
Being without Cleo affected him badly. He missed everything about her and it had been a mere day, from the sound of her dress as she moved to the scent of lavender, her sweet voice, her touch, her kiss. This did not bode well. Christ, he was getting more maudlin than a balmy dowager who was a bit touched in the upperworks. Next he’d take up needlework and start crying over French novels. Truly, he could not afford to dwell on tho
ughts of her now, with his mentor teetering on the brink of death. For much of the hasty journey, he forced her from his mind. By the time he reached the city, he was very nearly composed.
His house expected him though he hadn’t sent word. Apparently, one of Gladstone’s men had advised the staff of his imminent arrival. He had not gone straightaway to the Prime Minister’s lodgings as his instincts urged, but instead headed to his own quarters in Grosvenor Square. He had officially resigned from the cabinet and had no right to intrude upon the sickroom, despite his having been summoned. Instead, he would wait for Gladstone’s secretary to fetch him.
He was greeted in warm fashion by Levingood Junior and promptly received a nearly man-sized stack of correspondence that had been held for him whilst he holidayed in the country. “My lord ought to employ a new secretary, if I may be so bold,” Levingood intoned while Thornton stared at the mountain of papers in his study.
Damn, he’d forgotten about Jones’ resignation. He jammed a hand through his hair and sighed. “You may indeed be so bold, Levingood. I fear you’re right. Have you anyone in mind?”
“I shall make some inquiries.”
“Very good.” Thornton continued to stare at the unopened letters, feeling as if a loaded train was bearing down upon him and he had been tied to the tracks. “Levingood?”
“My lord?”
“Have you word on the Prime Minister’s health today?”
“None, my lord.”
“Very good.” Jesus, he didn’t know what to say, where to begin. His whole life was in shambles, threatening to topple like a Roman ruin. “Thank you, Levingood. I shall be here if you have any further need of me.”
The butler bowed and quietly took his leave. Thornton turned his mind to his papers, beginning the familiar task of opening each epistle, reading the contents and sorting them into tidy piles. Not ten minutes had passed before Levingood reentered, his expression one of nervous apology.
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