by Diana Ballew
“I would have more cool water in the basin, Bethie. Afterwards, perhaps you should rest. I shall stay with her ladyship tonight.”
Bethie hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but her hesitation was brief. Instead she nodded sharply. “Very good, my lord,” she said, and slipped from the room.
The door closed quietly behind her, and Thorne’s attention was snagged by the painting over the hearth. It wasn’t a pleasant painting. The subject matter was a ferocious depiction of Brutus at his worst. Why on earth would Lorelei keep such a sordid work in her bedchamber? It was a mystery. He grimaced. As was Harlowe’s disappearance.
Bethie’s ramrod countenance, coupled with her stocky stature, hit him with a sudden sense of relief. He could take comfort knowing that Bethie would guard Lorelei with her life—at least until he located Harlowe’s whereabouts and discovered exactly what the devil was going on.
Lorelei woke the next morning, her mouth dry as cotton and legs confined by—what the devil was Thorne up to? He lay atop the coverings, one leg pinning hers, his breath hot against her neck. The instinct to roll over and curl up next to him swirled through her like warm butter. Her fingers reached toward his scruffy jaw—
Memories crashed through her. His conversation with Miss Hollerfield edged into her mushy brain: When is the child expected? Two months.
Humiliation shuddered through her. Her throat ached with defeat. Thorne stirred next to her, and she snatched her hand away. Her eyes flew open, meeting his ghost-gray ones, clouded with desire, longing, need ... she had no wish to contemplate their depths. She struggled to move away. His body tensed over hers, trapping her.
Before she could capture her breath, his mouth descended on hers. It was a gentle assault, designed to disarm. A tantalizing brush of firm lips against hers, a tease of his tongue around the edge of her mouth. Oh, god. she’d missed him. His strength, the protection of his arms, the weight of his body reassuring her. Wouldn’t any woman revel in the feel of his heat? His lov—she gasped and shoved him away. Startled hurt blazed into a white-hot anger, completing her humiliation.
He drew back, his gaze appearing almost confused. Almost pained. And she’d almost fallen for it. Almost.
Slowly Thorne rolled onto his back and lay his head on a folded arm, watching her with a hooded gaze.
Lorelei scrambled from the bed. Her vision swarmed before her, forcing her to grasp the post at the foot, having risen too quickly. As her head cleared and the pounding in her ears subsided, daylight poured through the sheer linings covering the windows. The rain from the night before seemed to have washed away every dark cloud, leaving a sun-drenched sky.
Rains. Ginny. She froze.
“What is it?” His tone was lazy but experience told her he missed nothing.
“Ginny. Lady Maudsley.”
“Brockway saw her to the Martindales' masquerade.”
Panic squeezed the air from her chest. “What! Does he know how dangerous that is for her?”
His lips tightened, but he spoke calmly. “They traveled via our carriage. With the heavy rain, I daresay no one paid any mind.”
She could only pray that was true. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Ginny would be fine. Lord Brockway was a gentleman, and he surely understood Ginny’s situation. Her mind shifted to her current dilemma. “What are you doing in here?”
He ignored her question. “You should be in bed. You took a chill last night, you know.”
As the night’s events unfolded in her mind, so did her outrage. “And you plied me with laudanum.”
The chagrin in his expression was surely feigned. “How else were you to rest?”
“You as good as lied to me. Again,” she bit out.
He sighed and sat up.
You ... you ... slept in my bed.”
“I was looking after you! You were ill.”
“Keeping me prisoner, more like,” she muttered.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Do you think I shall stand by knowing you fathered a child in every corner of England and still expect to bed me?”
He stilled. “Pardon?”
An image in her mind took shape, dustcovers over furniture, a young boy’s voice. They’re sayin’ the pa of Miss Hollerfield’s babe was found dead.
Her gaze snapped to his. “You’re not dead.”
Lorelei’s pale features struck Thorne like a dull blade to the heart. She pressed the heel of her hand on her forehead and slid to the floor. Terrified, he leapt from the bed and crouched beside her. Fathomless blue eyes trapped his gaze.
“They said you were dead. Who is dead? Someone is dead?” With each question her voice rose, every shred of her control appearing to dissipate.
He wrapped an arm under her shoulders, looped the other beneath her knees, and scooped her up. “Of course, I’m not dead. I shan’t die for a very long time.”
A shudder racked her slight form.
“Ah, I see that distresses you.” He said it lightly, teasingly. “Rest assured, my love, I shall die sometime.” He placed her gently on the bed and tipped her chin up with his finger. “You are not yet recovered, I think.” He moved to the bell pull and tugged.
After a sharp knock on the door, Bethie’s head appeared through a crack.
“Fresh tea for Lady Kimpton,” he said. She pierced a sharp glance in Lorelei’s direction, nodded, then withdrew.
Thorne ran a hand over his unshaven jaw and looked down at his wrinkled clothes. The first order of business was a clear head. He walked over to the door adjoining his chamber and turned the knob. Nothing. He peered over his shoulder. She reclined against the pillows, arms folded beneath her breasts, lips compressed. The sight had hunger of a different kind gnawing at him. He wanted her, badly. Unfortunately, everything about her demeanor rejected him. “Lorelei,” he growled. “Where’s the key?”
And there was still the business of finding Harlowe. He couldn’t possibly tell her that her brother’s valet had been murdered. Then would come the explanations that he had no idea where her brother was and that Harlowe had fathered a courtesan’s unborn child.
“Who’s dead?” she demanded.
Then again, perhaps he should. He stopped and faced her fully as the realization of her previous words struck. “Who told you I was dead?”
Though she hadn’t moved, the room took on a stillness that rivaled a slab of granite. Had she somehow caught word of Marcus’s death? Where the devil would she have heard such a thing? And, from whom? Nothing in her features gave him any indication of her thoughts.
Nothing made sense. He didn’t know how long they stayed in that standoff, each considering the other, no sound but the pounding of his heart, until broken finally by Bethie’s appearance with the tea.
Irritated, Thorne stormed his chamber by the untraditional route—through the hallway.
Lorelei sipped her tea and watched Bethie absently, contemplating Ginny’s and her venture the evening before. Someone was dead. At least that’s what the boy had said. She didn’t think she’d imagined the entire thing. But who was dead? And why should it matter to Miss Hollerfield’s servants? She could still feel the weight of Thorne’s leg over hers. Thorne was definitely not dead.
“Well. ’Tis good to see you and Lord Kimpton have patched up yer spats.”
Startled, Lorelei blinked. Bethie disappeared into the sitting room. “Patched up our spats? You saw him walk into her house. You called him a cur.” Blast, she had almost succumbed to his sweet, teasing kisses. Anger lodged through her. Was she so weak she’d let him play with her affections so loosely?
Two weeks. In two weeks, she would be free to find Brandon without monetary restraint. And why should that thought distress her? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Of course, it is. She would never be able to sustain resisting him if he let loose that legendary charm on her. Her husband was much too sure of himself.
First things first, however. Lady Dankworth’s tea. She’d accepted the invitation weeks ag
o. If there was one place to unearth information, it was at Lady Dankworth’s tea. A small smile filled her for the first time in what seemed forever. “Bethie, please send for hot water. I’d like to dress.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” she said firmly. “Just do as I ask.” She rose and scribbled a quick note to Ginny telling her they’d meet at Lady Dankworth’s. Perhaps between the two of them they could think of a way to locate the absent Miss Hollerfield. And, if she was lucky, who she might contact regarding Brandon’s whereabouts.
Chapter 8
Thorne looped his cravat in a careless knot. From the mirror he caught Dante’s wince and chuckled. “It shall have to suffice, my man. I’ve no time to spare this morning.”
“But, my lord,” Dante gasped. “My reputation.”
“I’m off to meet with Brockway, if my lovely wife should happen to inquire.” Which was most unlikely. Breaking through her stiff resolve was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated. That slight shift of surrender he’d felt from her soft lips would turn to hardened resolve, he’d wager. She was nothing if not stubborn.
Thankfully, she was not quite up to her usual self. He’d love nothing more than spending the day abed, plying her body with techniques he knew would sway her to his will. Ah, well. Not an option. The search for Harlowe was becoming dire.
The man’s disappearance gnawed at Thorne. The notion that he may have pegged his wife’s scoundrel of a brother wrong all this time was troubling. Coupled with Marcus’s death—well, something was afoot. And whatever Harlowe’s faults, Thorne certainly didn’t believe the man capable of murder.
After a hot bath, Lorelei felt completely restored. Well, almost. A yellow muslin, trimmed in ivory satin with a myriad of small bows edging the seams on both sides from the bodice down the length of the frock, went far in those efforts. The dress was sunshine in and of itself.
“Bethie, send Andrews for the carriage. I shall be attending Lady Dankworth’s tea with Lady Maudsley.”
“Aye, my lady.” She marched from the room.
Less than an hour later, she found the streets more crowded than usual, making the drive to Lady Dankworth’s a hindrance. But she knew the gossip that flowed through Lady Dankworth’s would be well worth her efforts in the end. Not only did she have hopes of gaining information on the elusive Miss Hollerfield, but it was the perfect opportunity to find out who she might contact in the Foreign Office regarding Brandon’s location. If he was still alive. She swallowed the sudden lump. Crying wouldn’t help her brother. Or lessen the hurt inflicted by Thorne. Or her body’s own betrayal—
No! She refused to dwell on the man. On the breadth of his shoulders, on which she’d learned to lean, or the gaze of gray eyes that never seemed to miss a thing.
But despite her determination, thoughts of his sensuous lips intruded, firm yet soft. His hot breath on her neck turned her to mush, despite his betrayal. Her treacherous body infuriated her. Even now her lips burned with the taste of him. She clenched a fist, furious with him, with herself. She unclenched her fist and breathed as deeply as her confining corset allowed. She would need all her wits about her for this social outing.
The carriage slowed and shook with the placement of the steps for her exit. The door opened, and Lorelei snatched up her matching bonnet. Once inside the town house, Lorelei stripped off her bonnet, pelisse, and gloves and handed them over. Patting her hair into place, she followed the butler up the stairs to the parlor.
She’d visited Lady Dankworth many times over the past few years, and never would she get accustomed to the room. Overdone in pinks and roses, there was nothing subtle about the entire display. The settee, the chairs, the drapes, the linings—each and every one a different shade of pink.
Even the doilies covering the tables were of the palest orchid. Word was Lord Dankworth detested the color, and upon his demise … well, one only had to walk into this room to see how Lady Dankworth regarded the late Lord Dankworth. It made one wonder if the rest of the residence patterned the atrocity. Lorelei had a feeling it did.
Ladies Smythe and Faulk sat near the window, their heads together, whispering animatedly, while Ladies Peachornsby, Martindale, and Alymer were gathered more centrally, giggling amongst themselves. Lorelei's eyes stayed on Lady Faulk. Her husband was in public life, if she wasn’t mistaken. It was just a matter of subtlety.
“Ah, Lady Kimpton, how delightful of you to join us.” Lady Dankworth spoke loudly, drawing the other ladies’ attention. Her pink silk skirts rustled softly as she glided across to greet Lorelei. “We were uncertain ... ” A small awkward pause ensued. Lorelei waited. “ ... er, you see ... ” A long hush fell over the chamber.
The hair on Lorelei’s nape lifted. “Uncertain?”
“In light of Lord Kimpton’s ... er ... foolishness ... ”
Fury burned through Lorelei, overpowering her dread. But she had come here to learn, hadn’t she? Survival in town required acting skills worthy of Sarah Siddons. “Yes, it’s quite dreadful,” she murmured.
Lady Dankworth patted her hand. “Come, come, Lady Kimpton. Pray join us. Tea with a splash of brandy makes everything better.”
Lorelei had no doubts where that was concerned. If she was to get through the afternoon with these women, she ventured she would need more than just a splash, however.
Lady Dankworth hooked an arm through hers and led her towards Lady Peachornsby, who was already pouring out a cup. “Sit, sit, my dear. Lady Dankworth was just telling us how she spotted Lord Kimpton speaking to that awful Miss Hollerfield in the middle of the street just two days past.” She sniffed. “Dreadful woman.”
One thousand pounds, Lorelei chanted silently. Perhaps she would retire to Kimpton for the rest of her two-week prison sentence. The thought held merit.
She accepted the cup from Lady Peachornsby. “Thank you.” She took a healthy sip and choked on the amount of brandy.
Lady Peachornsby pounded her on the back. “Don’t worry, dear. It only burns for a moment.”
Lorelei nodded, blinking back tears. She took a more cautious sip. Truly, it wasn’t so bad in small doses. “Lord Kimpton was seen speaking to Miss Hollerfield?” Surely, that wasn’t her voice squeaking like a frightened mouse.
“Perhaps we ought not to speak about it,” Lady Dankworth said.
Lorelei cleared her throat and waved her hand. “Whyever not, Lady Dankworth? Please, feel free.” The words popping from her own mouth gave her pause. She’d never spoken so openly with others.
The elder woman leaned forward, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Well—”
Lorelei took another sip, if only to keep from slapping that glee from her expression.
“I was walking Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles—”
Confused, Lorelei straightened. “Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles?”
“My adorable little pugs.” Offended, she pointed to the corner, where indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles looked up from their elaborately made pink beds, cocking their heads at hearing their names.
Goodness, they were smart. “Oh, yes. Of course.” Lorelei handled a gulp this time, downed the entire contents. She held out her emptied cup to Lady Peachornsby. “More, please.”
Undaunted, Lady Dankworth went on. “As I was saying, Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles and I were out for our daily jaunt when Miss Hollerfield called out to your husband.” Her long nose wrinkled as if something smelled, forcing Lorelei to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back a giggle. “She said she was carrying something, but I failed to hear exactly what it was she was carrying.”
Oh my. Lorelei snatched her cup from Lady Peachornby’s outstretched hand and drained the cup.
“What do you suppose it was, Lady Kimpton?”
Lorelei shook her head. Ha! She knew exactly what it was Miss Hollerfield was carrying. She felt faint.
“Are you all right, dear?” Lady Smythe moved next to her and slipped the emptied cup from her shaking fingers. “You look slightly pale. I’d heard L
ord Kimpton sent for Dr. Pogue last night.”
Lorelei inhaled slowly. “Yes, yes. I’m quite all right. It’s true. Dr. Pogue did come to our home. I’m afraid Lord Kimpton believed me at death’s door, as I’d gotten caught in the rain. He panicked, the silly man. Please. Do go on.”
“Yes, well, I fear that’s all I know. Though I’ve since learned Miss Hollerfield has left town.”
“Left?” Lorelei could hardly squeeze the words past her throat. “Where to, do you suppose?”
“It hardly matters, does it? The important thing is that she’s gone,” Lady Dankworth said.
That much was true, she supposed. Lorelei glanced around at the curious faces, each watching, awaiting some reaction. Someone was missing, but because of her fuddled brain, she couldn’t remember who. She snapped her fingers as her mind grasped her thought. “Lady Dankworth, have you word from Lady Maudsley? She was to meet me here.”
“Oh, no, dear. She sent word that she, too, was under the weather, having been caught in the rain last night as well. She looked remarkably well at the Martindales' masquerade, I must say.”
Lorelei’s stomach fluttered with a frightened anxiousness. “Did she?”
Light laughter rippled through the room, and dread touched her. “It was quite the coincidence,” Lady Martindale piped in. “Lord Brockway followed her in by some fifteen minutes. That man is smitten, I daresay. His eyes never once strayed from her.”
Fear knotted inside Lorelei. This was a deadly turn of talk for Ginny. “Lady Martindale,” Lorelei gasped. “Everyone knows Lady Maudsley would never stray from her ... her husband.” She had a sudden urge to see her friend.
Lady Martindale had a kind, genteel face. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a knot at her nape, her wide green eyes sharp. She chuckled. “Of course not, dear, a married woman does not keep a single, eligible man from being besotted.”