by Diana Ballew
Thorne’s broad shoulders disappeared within the sanctity of his study and she gripped the carved balustrade to steady her shaking fingers, uncertain how much time had passed. Yet, long enough to witness Oswald tapping softly on the door then slipping inside. She should talk to him. Ask him …
She started down the stairs. In the two steps she’d taken, her husband stomped back into the foyer, jammed his hat on his head, and out the front door. It shut hard enough behind him to knock the vase with her favorite orchids over and crashing to the floor. The echoes rattled the chandelier, sent candlelight flickering in a violent fury against the walls.
Oswald’s wiry frame reappeared. Lorelei stilled.
Somehow, she resisted the urge to bend over at the pain searing through her abdomen. Silently, she willed the tears back, but they betrayed her. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Doing so would amount to acknowledging how deeply Thorne’s words cut. And one word in particular. She.
Lorelei must have dreamt the pain she thought she’d seen in the depths of his gray eyes. Too quickly, that practiced mask of composure he wore so well had slipped into place. Oh, how could she have failed to detect his attentions to another woman? No matter how late Thorne arrived home from his clubs, his meetings in Parliament, never had she even whiffed another’s perfume. Wherever he traipsed in from, night after night, he'd always ended up in her—their—bed.
Fury ripped through her gut at her own gullibility. She, who so stupidly believed her husband had grown to love her. Yet, he’d never spoken the words aloud, had he? No, and it was now clear, love from him had been wishful thinking on her part.
She gulped back a sob, refusing to give way to his insufferable behavior. Her sweet, talented younger brother was gone. Into the world, where he could end up maimed, or worse, dead. Despite her efforts to remain calm, her anguished cry escaped. She dashed back the tears with an angry fist and scolded herself. He could only hurt her if she let him. Drawing in a shaky breath, she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and cloaked herself in the anger rushing through her blood.
She. The selfish bastard. She pounded her fist on the heavy wood of the balustrade. Pain shot up her arm, but she ignored it. It was nothing compared to the torment tearing through her heart. He’d promised her fidelity. It was the only thing she’d requested in their marriage contract.
Fury was much easier to bear. She’d kill him. All his lovely compliments—the depth of her blue eyes, the silkiness of her curling blonde tresses, the softness of her creamy skin. Oh, how he’d ached for her—lies. All of it.
Oh, she’d stay, she fumed. She’d take the lout for his two thousand pounds, and then some. John Brown, Marquis Brockway, had always held her in his affections. Mayhap he’d hold her in other ways once she’d ended this farce of a marriage.
Sorrow hit her chest with the force of a thrown brick. She knew she could never follow through on such a threat. She’d had the unmitigated gall to have fallen in love with the blasted knave. She needed to think. To think she needed to remain calm. Tranquil. Stuff the hurt in a bag and toss it out with the refuse. Drawing air deep in her chest, she released it slowly, and let the quiet of the house steal over her.
Perhaps she had other powers. Thorne’s words began to sink through the fog of her mind. Why would he offer her money to stay? Certainly, it had something to do with the “she.” What else could it be?
Lorelei glanced over the railing to the front door. Indeed. Why would her husband offer her money? It was not as if he held undying love for his devoted wife. She slipped back down the stairs. Feeling like a thief in the night, she darted a quick glance over her shoulder, then stole into his study.
A steady fire burned in the grate, as if waiting for his return. On tiptoes, she drifted to the massive mahogany desk. Her husband was an inherently organized man. Usually, not a paper was out of place. But there, on the corner, was a crumpled note. Guilt swamped her, quickly dissipating. She.
God, she hated herself for her mistrust. But she would not be caught unaware again. Boldly, Lorelei lifted the missive, positive that lightening would bolt through the oversized windows and strike her straight in the heart. A sickly sweet fragrance wafted up, nauseating her.
My dearest Thorne,
That pressing matter we spoke of previously? I’m certain you remember. This is of an urgent matter. I look forward to a mutually beneficial resolution. Might I suggest my residence? Dusk tomorrow. Don’t be late.
Ever yours, R. Hollerfield
Lorelei dropped the missive as if it were a coiled snake, a red haze blurring her vision along with the settling of a deep chill within her. It could only be Rowena Hollerfield. The infamous courtesan was known for flaunting her conquests, and the better those coups, the greater her grandstand. Two thousand pounds was not enough.
She stormed from the room and stood in the empty foyer, unsure what to do, how to feel. The emotions roiled through her—she was stunned, furious, frightened. She.
“Oswald,” Lorelei bit out. Her most proper butler had no doubt heard hers and Thorne’s entire disgusting exchange, and he probably realized she’d been snooping as well. He appeared much too quickly to have been otherwise engaged. She should sack him.
The tall, lanky figure bowed. “Yes, my lady.” His kind, wrinkly face was impassive.
“Please contact Mr. Chubb. Have him call first thing in the morn.”
“The locksmith, my lady? Tonight?”
“Tonight.” The feral smile she turned on Oswald had him scurrying back posthaste. She had no doubt Oswald regretted his usual show of unflappability.
“Yes, my lady. First thing.” He stopped. “One thing, if I may, my lady.” He pulled a black pouch from his pocket. “Lord Kimpton asked that I personally make sure you received this.”
“What happened to you, Kimpton? Did your lovely wife finally come to her senses and toss you out?”
Thorne welcomed White’s dark interior and the heat the roaring fire put out. “Get me a towel,” he barked to the attendant. His scowl sent the man scampering. He turned to his longtime friend, John Brown. The marquis was in line for the dukedom, and not so far in the future, if rumors surrounding his father’s ill health were to be believed.
Thorne ignored his friend’s remark. Damn thing hit too close to the truth.
“Don’t tell me—she blames you for her brother’s disappearance.”
“Worse. She believes I took it upon myself to drop him on a ship bound for the Continent.”
Brock groaned. “I suppose you’ll be sleeping at the club tonight, then.”
Thorne was not about to admit defeat in that arena, but sleeping in his own cold bed held no appeal. The attendant appeared at his elbow, towel in hand. “Brandy,” he said, swiping his face.
“Tell me you did not mention the child?” Sarcasm colored Brock’s tone.
Thorne gritted his teeth. “Do you think me daft, man? Of course, I didn’t tell her. I’d never get near her again.” Thoughts of a chastity-filled future stretched before him. No possibility of ever cupping her lovely breasts, perfectly shaped to fit his hands, again; never again teasing her rosy, puckered nipples; or having her lush thighs wrapped about his waist, him buried deep within her velvet softness; never again hearing her abandoned cries of release.
No. Keeping the existence of the babe mum was imperative. The fact that the babe belonged to her irresponsible brother would matter naught. Informing Lorelei before he could locate Harlowe was a risk he was not willing to chance.
What angered him most was her believing he needed a mistress when he had a wife such as Lorelei, always willing to warm his bed. Jesus, it was nothing short of ridiculous. Why had he never told Lorelei how much he loved her? Oh, right - pride. He tossed back the contents of his tumbler in one great gulp.
Another glass appeared on the table. “Bring the bottle,” he snapped. One glass or two of brandy would not sustain him through this night.
Chapter 2
L
orelei woke slowly, eyes heavy, crusted shut with dried tears. The pain in her chest squeezed. A painful reminder of the night before and her shattered marriage. She drew in a shuddering breath, suddenly realizing her marriage was likely no different than any other among those of her and Thorne’s stature.
Pride, however, refused to let her look the other way. The thought of others pointing and snickering behind her back made her skin crawl. Blast that husband of hers. Well, Thorne could have his mistress and choke on her, but he would not have Lorelei!
Again, tears threatened, but she quickly pressed her fingers against her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. Dear Lord, she would be unfit for callers. After a long moment, composure steadied, though her head was pounding soundly, Lorelei rang for her maid. That heart-wrenching cry she’d suffered long before sleep had finally, and blissfully, claimed her was all she was willing to give over. Finished. She was finished. Now, she just needed to find Brandon, however one went about finding someone in another country.
Bethie, her no-nonsense maid, swung through the door and whipped back the curtains. The sun crashed against Bethie’s starched white apron, blinding Lorelei. Yes, the sun would shine another day no matter how drastically life changed in the space of one short hour.
Bitterness roiled through her stomach as her gaze landed on the door connecting Thorne’s chamber to hers. She shoved back the regret and, while embracing the resentment, wondered briefly if he’d come home at all, or if she’d sent him straight into the arms of that woman.
Disgusted with the thought, Lorelei refused to take responsibility for his behavior. She’d never—not once—had she ever turned her husband away. She loved him. Once again, the tears threatened and she blinked quickly.
A shadow blocked her view. “My lady, your eyes are most puffed this morning,” Bethie said.
Lorelei considered Bethie’s stout countenance, the sharp gaze that missed nothing, grayed hair pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. “Yes. I must be coming down with something.” She covered a delicate cough with her fingers.
“Tea should be along shortly. You’ll be wantin’ to stay abed then.” It wasn’t a question.
Truly, Bethie may have missed her calling as commander of her own unit in the war. France would never have stood a chance.
Lorelei smiled in spite of the pain in her head. “No, Bethie. I have much to do today. I shall need to dress.” Arm herself, more like. Not a sound breached the connecting door, forcing her to swallow the large lump blocking her airway. She had to locate someone, find out exactly where Brandon was destined, but had no idea where to begin her search. La! She was scheduled for tea at Lady Dankworth’s later in the week. That woman was a veritable mountain of information. Lorelei expelled the air in her lungs with a sense of relief, her mission marching through her. She would pose the question to Lady Dankworth.
A timid knock at the door, and Bethie assaulted her duties by snatching the tea tray from Liza, the upstairs house maid. The poor girl stumbled back as Bethie slammed the door on the girl’s horrified expression, barely missing her toes.
Lorelei winced. “You’re terrifying the help again, Bethie,” she murmured. Bethie appeared not to hear and set down the tray. Pointless words, regardless. “Thank you.” She rubbed her eyes and pinched her cheeks. It wasn’t much, but it made her feel better. She scooted to the center of the bed, allowing room for Bethie to move the tray next to her. With a sigh, Lorelei poured out her tea. She dipped her spoon in the sugar dish and stilled. An envelope addressed with an unfamiliar scrawl rested beneath the plate of scones. “That will be all for now, Bethie. One half hour, if you please.”
“Very good, my lady.” A diligent soldier, her Bethie, bound by duty with her militant tone.
The latch clicked softly behind her maid, and with trembling fingers, Lorelei picked up the envelope.
Mr. Chubb. He would arrive by ten. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle. Two hours. Could she really do it? Install a lock to keep Thorne out? One solid kick, and the door would crash to the ground.
She.
Lorelei swallowed back, not just another lump, but also a bitter taste of regret. She clamped her lips tightly together, hardened her resolve. Things with Thorne were forever changed. Eight hundred pounds would go far in retrieving her brother, she vowed, even allowing her to set aside enough to take care of herself should the need arise. And five-hundred pounds was an excellent start.
She was through giving herself to Thorne. And while the law might not share her decision to withhold herself from her lawful husband, she knew deep down that Thorne would never force his ministrations. Installing a lock on the connecting doors was a statement. One that would strike her husband in the heart or, perhaps more appropriately, below the belt—
“My lady?” Bethie’s gray head peered around the door, startling her.
Startled, Lorelei’s tea sloshed over the rim. “Come in, Bethie. Though I feel inclined to mention it is not yet a half hour.”
Thorne lifted his head from the pillow, grunted at the pain, and dropped again, face down. He vaguely recalled one arm from the club’s attendant and another from Brock, assisting him to bed. He was pretty sure it was not the favored one at home. That elicited a resounding groan. Lorelei was bound to think the worst now. God, what a fool he was. A temperamental, prideful fool. Still, Lorelei had never voiced her undying devotion either. Just opened her body to you whenever you pleased. Well, wasn’t it her duty as his wife? And not once in the past two years had she initiated their intimacy. Therein lay the crux. Did she lie with him for duty only or something more? Once an heir was produced would she continue to give herself so freely?
Rising slowly, he gathered his bearings and rang for coffee. He fumbled for his pocket watch on the bedside table. Damnation, it was already past noon. At this rate he would not be home before three. He scrubbed a palm over the scruff of his beard.
Someone knocked. “Sir?”
“Do you have to pound down the bloody door?”
“Apologies, sir.”
Thorne waved his hand about. “Coffee, strong. And arrange a bath.”
“Very good, sir.”
Three hours later, Thorne pulled his horse up to his London townhome, head still pounding to an annoying degree. He dropped to the ground, tossed the reins into the hands of a waiting groom, and stopped short. A gentleman, face obscured by his hat, satchel in hand, climbed into a waiting carriage. His cane tapped the ceiling and the conveyance jerked forward. A whiplash of panic bolted through Thorne.
Thorne broke into a run and burst through the door, surely upsetting Oswald’s normal efficiency. “Lorelei!” His voice rang through the house.
Oswald hurried into the foyer. “Sir?”
“Where is Lady Kimpton?”
“Out, sir.” Oswald’s calm tones grated against Thorne’s last nerve.
“Out?” He pulled up.
“Yes, sir. Out.”
“Well, who the devil was that leaving? I thought he was a doctor.” Thorne set about gathering his wits and willed away the heat in his face.
“Mr. Chubb, sir.”
“Chubb. Chubb?” How odd. That band about his chest tightened.
“The locksmith, sir.” Oswald’s stoic demeanor gave nothing away.
“The locksmith?” Thorne closed his eyes, forcing himself to remain patient. “Tell me the servants’ entrance had need of a new lock, Oswald.”
“The servants’ entrance had need of a new lock, sir.”
He lifted a brow. “Indeed?”
“No, sir.”
The pounding in Thorne’s head refused to subside. He paced his study, stormed to the windows, looked out. The sight brought nothing new, and he resumed his pacing. Once Lorelei returned, he’d sit her down—no, he’d lay her down. Yes, once Lorelei was home, he’d lay her down. Smother her neck, her jaw, her mouth with kisses, until thoughts regarding any other women were obliterated. His wife was not immune to his kisses.
On about the fifth or eighth pass—he’d lost count—he groaned. Rowena’s note. Right where he’d dropped it the night before. He snatched it up and heavy perfume permeated his nostrils, threatening the contents of his stomach. He darted back to the window and threw it open, then forced himself to do a quick read-through.
What the hell was so important that he had to meet her at dusk? And at her home? Such action was marital suicide, that’s what it was. Good God, if Lorelei got wind of this, he’d be done for, for sure. Disgusted, he stalked to the hearth and tossed the expensive vellum into the fire.
He glanced up at the old English lantern clock. The ornate face with etched Roman numerals showed quarter past four. If he wasn’t mistaken, Lorelei had accepted the invitation to the Peachornby’s bash. And his most proper wife never reneged on an accepted invitation. He settled back on the settee and closed his eyes. A short nap would revive his constitution and his temper.
Later, the creak of the front door opening, then closing, stirred Thorne from a heavy slumber. He blinked slowly, trying to gather his bearings. A shaft of the early evening sun breached the drapes, reminding him he hadn’t seen Lorelei since the night before. Clopping horses pulling away sent Thorne diving for the windows. He jerked the drapes apart to see the tail of his carriage entering traffic as dusk fell.
Dusk.
He tore out of the study, taking the stairs two at a time.
Lorelei settled against the plush seat of the Kimpton coach. Bethie glared at her from the seat across, wearing a fierce scowl, arms folded beneath her massive bosom. Lorelei dropped her eyes to a wrinkle in her skirt and smoothed her hand over it.