Scandalous Lovers

by Diana Ballew

  “’Tis madness, I tell ye.”

  “Bethie, please, I refuse to discuss the matter further,” she said firmly. Of course, instructing Bethie had never deterred her before and wouldn’t now.

  “I never heard the like. Ye’er s’posed to attend Peachornby’s.”

  “And I will. I’m just making a slight detour. You’ll take the carriage home once Andrews lets me off.”

  Bethie’s scowl deepened. The effect reminded Lorelei of one of those odd pug-nosed dogs she’d seen Lady Dankworth tugging through Hyde Park of late.

  If Lorelei hadn’t been so frightened of what she might learn on this underhanded mission she was on, she might have laughed. But she was frightened. So many things frightened her: the loss of her reputation, if someone happened upon her plans; her husband’s reaction, if he caught her, and most importantly, learning he truly still held the woman’s affections.

  Lorelei glanced out the window. The Peachornby home was just ahead. Steel in her spine, she turned to Bethie with a stern question. “You understand what you are to do?”

  “Aye, but I don’t like it.”

  “I didn’t ask you if you liked it.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll flag down a hackney,” she huffed. “It’s just not seemly for my lady to be a-ridin’ in such a common way.”

  Her maid was a snob! Lorelei bit back a small grin. “Be that as it may, I have my reasons.” She fastened her cloak clear up to her neck, veiling her bronze skirts, and tapped the roof. “Andrews,” she called. “We shall walk from here.” The carriage slowed to a stop.

  She alighted before Bethie, no doubt further shocking her maid’s delicate sensibilities with the lack of natural ordered precedence. “Go,” she whispered.

  Bethie marched down the street like the general Lorelei could depend upon. An earsplitting whistle pierced the air, and she flinched. Seconds later, a badly sprung cab pulled over. Bethie gave the driver their direction in low tones. Lorelei picked up her step.

  One whiff of the stench inside and Lorelei whipped through her reticule for her lavender-scented handkerchief.

  Lorelei ignored Bethie’s mocking smirk. “You did tell him to drop us two blocks—”

  Bethie expelled an exasperated sigh. “My lady,” she said, indignant. “I cannot have you bein’ seen in the vicinity of that harlot’s abode. I gots my reputation to see to.”

  “Bethie, you will mind your place when you speak to me,” Lorelei informed her primly. “I can sack you, you know.”

  Bethie shook her head at the fate she appeared resigned to. “Won’t matter none, iffn’ we’re caught. His lordship will see to the sackin’ himself.” But then Bethie straightened her large militant form, lips forming a firm line.

  Relief flooded Lorelei. Ever faithful, Bethie would never fail her. The hackney took several turns that carried over some twenty or thirty minutes. Lorelei was concerned. “Does the driver know where he’s going? I didn’t think it was this far.”

  “I had him take us in a roundabout manner, so no one’s to recognize ye,” she returned. “Iffen’ we’re gonna’ do this, then we might as well get it done right-like.” Bethie glanced out the window. “We’re close,” she said softly. “You stick by me, my lady.” The carriage rolled to a slow stop.

  Anxiety crawled over Lorelei’s skin like a rash. “Can you see her door from here?”

  “Aye, just barely. What is it yer lookin’ for?” Bethie’s eagle-eyed glance never wavered from the window.

  Lorelei let out a small cough. “Er … well—”

  “—Weel, weel, what do ye know?” Bethie’s eyes narrowed on something beyond Lorelei’s vision.

  “What is it?” Lorelei leaned closer, nose touching the glass.

  “There.” She pointed, but Lorelei could make out nothing. Darkness was falling quickly.

  “It’s his lordship, hurrying like the Watch was after 'im.”

  Lorelei’s stomach lurched.

  “He’s goin’ up to the door, the cur!”

  “Bethie! That is my husband you are speaking about.” Lorelei felt silly defending the ‘cur’ when said ‘cur’ was walking into the house of the most infamous member of the demimonde. Still, she was married to the bastard.

  Bethie had the courtesy to appear chagrined. “’e’s gone inside.”

  Lorelei drummed gloved fingers on her knee. What should she do? Wait, she decided. If he hadn’t gone there to … to satisfy his lust, then he should be but a moment. After all, he was answering Miss Hollerfield’s summons.

  But seconds dragged into minutes, and minutes into … well, surely an hour had passed. And still, he hadn’t reappeared. Each passing second was an eon that Lorelei studied the house. And each passing second, she fumed. She was so angry it was a wonder the carriage did not combust.

  A light flickered to life in tall windows facing Lorelei and Bethie. A curvaceous woman looked out, then spun. Lorelei gasped for breath as the woman’s bosom almost spilled from her elegant, low-cut gown.

  She swallowed back a lump of tears. Her own bosom barely filled her husband’s hands. She’d never realized how lacking she was until that moment. Shaking the thought from her head, she concentrated on the scene. Something about Miss Hollerfield’s demeanor seemed, well, out of place. Her body was as tense as a violin string. Lorelei narrowed her eyes.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Lorelei flipped the latch and lashed out with her foot, sending the door crashing against the outer carriage wall. She hopped down as gracefully as her skirts allowed. “Wait here,” she told Bethie.

  “Over my dead body.”

  Ignoring Bethie’s grumble, Lorelei strode down the street, past caring if anyone saw her. Besides, the sky was no longer light with the soft gray clouds of early evening, but pitch-black but for a sliver of moon threatening to break through. Only a lamppost offered illumination barely reaching a three-foot perimeter. Her focus was riveted on the woman in the window.

  As Lorelei drew closer, she could see the woman raging at someone. Though she couldn’t see whom, she knew it was Thorne—he certainly had the ability to drive a woman mad.

  Bethie huffed beside her.

  “I told you to wait,” she said furiously.

  “Hmph.”

  “I am no longer the child you raised, Bethie. I am a woman grown.”

  “Aye, and yer actions show how much good sense ye ’tained after all my teachins’.” Bethie was panting heavily now.

  Shame clawed Lorelei and she slowed. “Shush.” If her husband could manage to retain Miss Hollerfield’s attention for just a moment longer, she could edge alongside the hedges and possibly discern some of their conversation.

  To her relief, Bethie obliged her request, for once, shoving wayward tree limbs aside and allowing Lorelei closer access. She could just make out Bethie’s compressed lips, courtesy of the soft glow from the window. Bethie had obviously assessed something of the situation. Good.

  Guilt squeezed Lorelei’s chest. Bethie would just as soon chop off his protruding parts if her expression was anything to go by.

  “But, darling, you do realize your marriage will never recover?” The presumption in Miss Hollerfield’s tone grated on Lorelei’s last nerve.

  “I shall worry about my marriage, darling.” Thorne’s anger carried through the night air, controlled but furious. It warmed Lorelei’s heart— “When is the child expected?”

  “Two months.”

  Child?

  Chapter 3

  Thorne reined in his temper. Rowena had some nerve. “When is the child expected?”

  “Two months.”

  Two months! He eyed her protruding middle, somewhat mortified. What the hell was he supposed to do with a pregnant ex-mistress? It wasn’t as if he could walk up and put the question to his cronies at White’s. “My dear sir, how does one go about hiding a bastard?” He grimaced. Though, no doubt, more than half of them had one or two stashed away somewhere.

  “What are you after, Rowena?”
>
  “My child’s well-being, of course.” Rowena tipped her head in a stately manner, not unlike Princess Caroline. The effect was grand, making her appear older than her age. Her gown of dark green silk failed to hide the fact that she was definitely with child, though yards of fabric in her skirts helped to disguise exactly how far along she was.

  Thorne paused for a time, frowning. “You’re certain the child is Harlowe’s?”

  Rowena sashayed to a cart holding an array of spirits, splashed golden liquid in a tumbler. “Brandy, darling?”

  “This is not a social visit, Rowena.” Thorne fairly growled. “Perhaps we could stay on the topic at hand. Your notion of passing the babe off as mine won’t work, you know. I haven’t darkened the step of your door in all of two years.”

  “Alas, that is true,” she said sweetly. Her expression grew hard, bitter. “But I need money.”

  And we both know who the father is. She didn’t say the words, but they hung in the air. The door opened and a young, heavyset girl poked her head through, her rich dark hair in disarray.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised. She was quite striking, with dainty features and a timid demeanor despite her rounded size. She reminded Thorne of someone but the name escaped him. “My apologies,” she whispered.

  Rowena turned a stern frown on her. “I shall be available shortly.”

  “O-of course,” she stammered.

  When the girl stood there gaping at him, Rowena barked, “That will be all, Corinne.” Her words startled the girl. With a short huff, she disappeared.

  Thorne shifted back to the matter at hand. “Have you word of my wife’s brother?”

  “That blackguard?” she hissed. “No. Rumors are he’s fled the country.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “And that you are the one who instigated his disappearance.”

  Thorne grimaced. “I suppose that’s why you decided to blackmail me?” It made perfect sense.

  Rowena shrugged. “What else was I to do?” Her expression portrayed her well-honed cynicism. “I’ll not have my child harmed.”

  He could see she meant every word and sympathy touched him. She would not appreciate the sentiment, however. “Of course. I’m sorry.” Truly, he was. He ran a hand through his hair. “The truth of the matter is, I had nothing to do with the man’s disappearance.”

  “I hope you never find him.” The ferocity of her tone stunned him.

  “And why is that? You could marry and give up this ... this life.” He grimaced, knowing he had contributed to that life as well.

  “I would never marry that bounder. He is not fit to wipe the dirt from my shoe.”

  “I see.” Though he didn’t. “In any event, I must locate him.”

  “Ah, his sister is concerned, I take it.”

  “To say the least.” Thorne paced the parlor, then stopped as the perfect idea ... well, perhaps not perfect, occurred. He really had no choice in what he was about to offer. “Look. Might I suggest you vacate town for the small cottage on my estate in Kimpton. Suppose you … err … close up shop and … uh, settle there for a time?”

  Her look of disbelief turned shrewd. No one would dare call Rowena a fool. She sipped the contents of her glass, then set it down abruptly. “Yes. I believe that is an excellent plan, my lord. But what shall you tell your precious wife?”

  “That is the question, is it not?”

  Ten minutes later Thorne made his appearance at the Peachornbys’ rout. Whispers twittered behind him. Showing early was unfashionable, but he felt a sudden desire to see his wife. He wouldn’t approach her, he just wanted reassurance of her physical being.

  Tomorrow, he would step up his efforts to locate Harlowe. If he had any hope of keeping, pleasing Lorelei, finding the lazy lout and making the fool confess his sins was the surest way of securing his wife to his side.

  “Kimpton. Early for you, is it not?”

  He let Brock’s sarcasm roll off his back. “I’m looking for Lady Kimpton. Have you seen her?”

  Brock’s voice lowered. “I have. And I must say, she did not look so well.”

  Thorne narrowed his gaze on his friend, his pulse jumping. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, she appeared pale—gracious, of course; beautiful, as always—but quite pale.”

  The concern in Brock’s tone instilled a surge of panic. Thorne searched the ballroom but could see no sign of his flaxen-haired wife. “Did you speak with her?”

  “No, although I’m quite certain she saw me. She sought refuge with Lord Griston. Deliberately.”

  This was bad indeed. No one sought Griston’s company intentionally.

  “Don’t worry. She didn’t speak with him long. But I’ve yet to see her again. Ah, there is her friend, Lady Maudsley.” Brock angled his head towards French doors leading to the terrace. “Perhaps she stepped outside, it’s stifling in here.”

  Lady Maudsley was a tall, attractive woman with amber deep-set eyes. Dark hair, piled high on her head, made a striking sight against the deep red of her gown. Her smile was always bright. Too bright.

  Thorne found her annoyingly cheerful. At times, her cheer was completely inappropriate. He’d never been able to pinpoint the exact reasoning for his conclusions, just that on occasion, she seemed to try too hard. Unfortunately for her, the entire Beau Monde knew her husband couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Even if they were bound tightly together at his backside. The man was twice her age and a menace to any young female within a five-foot range. Age-appropriate not required.

  Thorne cut his way through the crowd in the woman’s direction, Brock close on his heels. “Lady Maudsley,” he said, bowing slightly.

  “Lord Kimpton.” He winced at her elevated volume. Her glance slid to Brock and her smile faltered. Recovering quickly, she murmured, “My lord.”

  Brock took her gloved hand and unleashed a wolfish grin that turned her cheeks a decided red. “Lady Maudsley, you look ravishing.”

  She jerked her hand from him, and ignoring Brock, shifted her attention back to Thorne. He was sorely tempted to remind Brock to keep his cock in his breeches. The girl was married, for God’s sake, even if the bastard was a notorious cuckold.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, my lord. Lorelei was certain you were engaged elsewhere this evening.”

  “Was she?” He scanned the ballroom once more.

  “Yes. I believe she mentioned aspirations more in line with Lord Maudsley.” Surprisingly, and thankfully, she’d lowered her voice. His gaze bolted back to her and narrowed. Her usual exuberant expression was carefully blank.

  “So you’ve seen her, I take it?”

  “Indeed I have.” She gave a slight incline of her head. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Kimpton, Lord Brockway. A good evening to you both.”

  Before he could blink, Lady Maudsley was weaving her way straight towards Griston.

  After a long and harrowing night, Thorne pushed his way through the door of his chamber, waving away Dante, his valet. Lorelei had effectively managed to evade him the entire evening.

  Lady Maudsley showed an intelligent bit of sense, having not wasted much time with Griston either, twelve minutes to be exact, before managing her escape from the ballroom. From the shadows, he’d followed her as close to the retiring room as he dared, where he was almost certain Lorelei was hiding. Neither one had returned. He’d waited until the early morning hours to see.

  On stealthy steps, he stopped at the closed connection that led to Lorelei’s room. He should kick the door down—demand his rights as a man. As her husband. Persuading her would likely take only a matter of moments. He knew her every weakness. A light stroke to her neck, a whisper in her ear, she would be his even without skilled hands and hot kisses. Unfortunately, the moment their exhilaration ended, so would a life based on trust and hope.

  Still, he clasped the knob and turned. Locked. Well, that clarified Mr. Chubb's presence and did nothing to stifle his frustration.

  Thorne was not without weapons of his own
. He’d won her over with charm before; he would do so again. And with a fortnight on his side, he’d have her crawling to him—if he was lucky enough to find that confounded brother of hers. She would come to him of her own free will, and he would welcome her with open arms. And, pride be damned, he ... he ...

  Tossing. Turning. Tangled. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  Lorelei clawed at the slippery walls beneath her fingertips, cold and damp. Through miles and miles of dark, narrow corridors, she fought her way to the sobbing child. Yet the closer she came to the child, the more the air asphyxiated her.

  Ahead, the flame of a single candle flared. She burst through the archway and ... froze. Rowena Hollerfield hovered over the grand white wicker bassinet, draped in ivory tulle. She reached in and lifted the small infant, and his cries fell away. No! No, it could not be. Yet there she stood, cooing at the tiniest, most delicate being.

  Her features were difficult to make out, but as Miss Hollerfield slowly turned, she raised her head high, looking straight down an autocratic nose. Her elegant black hair, glittered with diamonds, was arranged to perfection. Creamy white arms held out the baby where he dangled precariously. “Would you care to hold him?” Her voice was husky with sensuality.

  Lorelei gasped. “Don’t. Don’t drop him.”

  Miss Hollerfield’s full, bright red lips parted, filling the chamber with laughter, her arms dropping, releasing her hold. The child rolled free.

  She dove for the bundle. “No!”

  Lorelei shot up to sitting, her night-rail drenched. Nightmare. Dear God. It was only a nightmare. Moonlight streamed across her chamber through sheer linings that covered tall, sashed windows. Pulse racing, she darted from the bed, ripped a lining straight from its rod, fumbled clumsily with the window latch. Finally, the window gave way, and she fell over the sill and heaved in the cold night air.