by Diana Ballew
A disturbance sounded from the foyer.
“What the devil?” Thorne relinquished the art piece to Brock’s possession and glanced out the door to see the footman holding a sleeping countess. “Andrews?” The discomfort on the footman’s face kept Thorne from punching first and asking questions later.
“I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but Lady Kimpton missed her step as she alighted from the carriage—”
Thorne rushed forward. “—is she hurt?”
“I don’t believe so, my lord. I caught—”
“Give her over, Andrews. I shall handle matters from here.” He hoisted Lorelei from Andrews. The faintest whiff of brandy mingled with roses tickled his nostrils. He frowned. “I thought she attended Lady Dankworth’s tea.”
“Aye, sir. She did.”
Lorelei curled against his chest, her trust in him squeezing the air from his lungs. “Thorne?”
“Inform Lord Brockway of my unexpected delay.”
“Consider him informed,” Brock said, lips twitching.
Shaking his head, Thorne carried his inebriated wife up the stairs. “I’ve half a mind to forbid you from future teas, madam,” he said softly as he made his way down the hall to her chambers.
She rubbed her head against his chest much like an affectionate kitten. A kitten whose claws were retracted, because even the tiniest claws drew blood.
“They said Brandon’s valet had been murdered,” she whispered. “Murdered. Is it true, Thorne?”
He grimaced. As much as he hated lying, he hating having to admit the truth just as much. Lorelei should never have to hear talk of something as ghastly as murder. He kicked the door open to her chamber, startling Bethie. “It’s true.” Lorelei’s body shook with silent sobs.
“My lady,” Bethie gasped.
“She’s fine, Bethie. Let us be. I shall ring for you in a bit.” He glanced down at the package in his arms. “You might prepare the saline wash, however, for the aching head your ladyship is bound to wake with.”
The door closed silently, and Thorne laid Lorelei on the bed. He leaned her head on his chest and worked the fastenings down the back of her dress with deft fingers. His fingers grazed the base of her spine just below her corset. Warm skin was no match for her delicate chemise. His pulse threatened to leap through his skin.
The ties from her corset tickled his wrist, and he tugged them free. As they loosened, she moaned, an ecstatic whimper that sent the blood surging straight to his cock. In reality, it was most likely relief from her bindings and not undying lust, to his utmost regret.
Lorelei’s arms hung at her sides, her breath heating his shoulder. He drew her gown down her arms, a lovely frock that rivaled the brightest day. He brought her to her feet, letting the gown slide over her slim hips and down her legs. A heap of bright yellow silk pooled at his feet.
Thorne swallowed. Honestly, what had he been thinking? He should have let Bethie take care of Lorelei. Ha, why bother lying to himself? The opportunity to savor her was too great. To revel in her rose-scented skin, feel her soft sweet breath though his shirt, run his hands over her satiny white arms—the honor was truly his.
Her vulnerability reached deep within his heart. His soul. He would do anything within his power to shelter her from hurt—aching head notwithstanding. Even if it meant dragging that brother of hers from the dregs of hell, he’d manage that as well, he vowed.
“I do hope you enjoyed your tea, darling.” He chuckled softly. Her arms crept up around his neck, and his breath stopped. “You do realize you are potted, my love?”
“Mmm?”
“Intoxicated, dear. Muddled.”
She looked up at him, her gaze unfocused. The effect rendered him frozen. She blinked, breaking her mesmeric hold over him. He unhooked her arms from his neck, and he went down to his knees, setting her hands on his shoulders. “Steady now,” he said, slipping off one shoe, then the other.
Creamy thighs hit him at eye level, and he swallowed past a hard lump, rethinking his current position. He’d best leave the silk stockings. He rose quickly. “A small respite for you, my lady.”
Her arms snaked back around his neck and tightened, her nose in the crook of his shoulder. He stood fully, pulling her up with him, though resisting her body completely was not something he could manage at the moment. He held her steady. She was soused, after all.
“D-don’t leave me, Thorne ... I-I was so frightened ... I-I thought you ... were d-dead.” The words were a heated mumble against his neck and threatened to drop him back to his knees, where restraining himself would prove impossible. With a groan, he pulled her weightless body tightly into his. Wisps of flaxen hair had worked free, brushing his cheeks, their whispered touch teasing him without a shred of mercy.
“I told you, I shan’t die for a long while.”
“Please, I-I don’t want to be alone.”
A candidate for sainthood? “Of course, I’ll stay, darling, for a bit.” He’d qualify. Surely the Almighty was keeping count. With one arm, Thorne tugged the covers back and lay her down. She grasped his wrists.
Her reluctance to let go drew his smile. “No—”
Her fingers moved and clasped his cravat. She tugged his face to hers.
Before he could gather his bearings her mouth found his in a desperate hunger. He was much too weak of will to resist such an onslaught. Her tongue tasted of brandy and woman, and, by God, he gave back. Her kiss sang through his veins. His one hand found her breast. When her nipple hardened against his palm, his own kiss deepened, his tongue stroking her with an ache that would go unsatisfied. His arousal grew fierce against the flap of his buckskins. God, to throw her back, grind himself against the heat between her legs—
Thorne jerked his mouth from hers. “Lorelei. Darling.” The words came out strangled. He had to stop. She would never forgive him on the morrow.
Her hand slid down his chest to the front of his breeches. Damned if his hand didn’t close over hers to pull her touch away. But defending himself from her was not only ridiculous, but futile. Pressure, he needed pressure. His mind grasped thoughts of her fingers tightening around his cock. And the thoughts drove him wild. He shouldn’t. But he did—he squeezed her hand against him.
He dragged his other hand from her breast and popped buttons straining on the flap of his breeches free, then guided her hand back up over his bared skin. The sound escaping his throat was animalistic, not human. The contrast of her cool fingers on his hot flesh finished off any resolution of resistance. The pleasure pained him.
He thrust his tongue back in her mouth, drank in the sweet, hot fire of her desire. His cock throbbed beneath her—their fingers. He broke away. “Yes,” he breathed. But only for a second, taking her mouth once more as his hips lifted in a rhythmic motion, matching time with the dance of his tongue. “Harder, darling. Squeeze harder.” Only he was the one squeezing his hand over hers, praying he didn’t bruise her fingers with his grip.
Touch. He needed to touch her. His other hand found the heat between her legs. Hot and so wet, she writhed beneath him. He parted the soft velvet folds, pressed his thumb against the nub at the crest, and treated her to that same dance. Her cries spilled into his mouth. He kept one hand over hers, massaging his arousal in a frenzy, his other pumping against her sex in relentless fervor.
Faster, harder, more desperate than he could have ever realized. God, how he’d missed this. Missed her. He refused to let up. The urge to feel her climax against his lips came too late as she pulsed against his fingers. That was all it took for his seed to pour over their joined fingers. He stroked until he had nothing left, suckling her bottom lip, raining kisses over her jaw, her cheeks, her eyelids, before finally resting his forehead on hers.
Slowly, he rose and gazed down at her resting form. Dark lashes were stark against her pale skin, and so, so lovely his chest hurt. Her own rose and fell in a steady pattern. With the greatest of efforts, he forced his hand from her sex that still quivered with resist
ance. “I love you,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her lush mouth. “God, how I love you.”
A small feminine snore escaped her. His shoulders fell in disappointment. Ah, well, she wouldn’t have believed him, regardless. He hefted himself away from the bed.
“Don’t leave,” she mumbled.
He couldn’t have if someone held him at sword point. “It’s all right, darling. I’m going to draw the drapes. You’ll thank me when you’ve woken.”
He dampened a cloth and cleaned Lorelei’s hands, then pulled the covers to her chin. After closing the drapes, he stirred the fire and kicked off his boots. Once stripped of his breeches, he crawled in next to her and brought her into his body, letting out a long breath that conformed in perfect unison with her already regular rhythm.
Chapter 10
Brutally callous, relentless pounding woke Lorelei the next morning. It seemed to be coming from the inside of her head. How was that possible? She tried to sit, only to fall quickly back in searing pain. Light streamed through a crease where the drapes did not quite meet. She blinked at the assault and covered her eyes with her forearm.
The groan that echoed through the chamber was her own. The door slung back, hitting the wall behind. Through a squinted gaze, Lorelei made out Bethie’s stout form, full tea service in hand.
A waft of sweetened pastries breached the sensitivity of her senses. She dropped from the bed, scrambling for the chamber pot. A painful bout of retching ripped through her in an effort to empty the contents of an already empty stomach.
“His lordship insisted you eat,” Bethie said fiercely. “I have prepared a saline wash, too. I imagine you have quite the achin’ head.”
If Lorelei could have spoken, she would have sacked her insolent, outspoken maid. Unfortunately, the need for the saline draught was most desperate. She held out her hand, in which a glass miraculously appeared. Still on her knees, Lorelei downed the concoction, very nearly choking in the process. “What. Is. This. Vile stuff?”
“A half-ounce of fine salt, four ounces each of vinegar and water, and two ounces of brandy.”
Brandy? Lorelei leaned over the chamber pot again, stomach roiling. Yet, surprisingly, nothing surged forth. Her constitution might survive after all. She rose slowly, testing her mettle. “I believe I may live. Open the curtains. Not completely, mind.” Lorelei crawled back up on the bed, willing the room to still. “What happened?”
Bethie set the chamber pot outside the door, then tugged on the bell pull. “The footman says you stumbled from the carriage—right into his arms. His lordship carried ye up and put ye to bed.”
“Put me—”
“Ye can jest imagine my surprise when I saw him waltzin’ from yer room this morning, pleased as a cat, satisfied with his cream—”
“—satisfied ... with his ... this morning?” Good heavens, what had she done? But as the heat stole over her body, snatches of erotic imagery crept through her memory. Her hand wrapped around velvet steel; hips lifting, pressing against a skilled thumb; deep soul-searing kisses. The answers were all too clear. A vague recollection of his weight settling beside her, embracing her within his safety—she glanced quickly at the pillow. A slight indention appeared. She groaned.
Words of love. Words of love? Tears pricked her eyes. Apparently, she couldn’t distinguish fantasy from reality.
She blinked back the tears. Had anything changed? Nothing, except perhaps trust in her own judgment. Thorne still had Brandon sent to the middle of who-knew-where, hadn’t he? Another important something refused to surface at her will. There was also the matter of another woman’s child. She hadn’t dreamed that. She rubbed her temples and tried to think. An impossible feat when one’s head threatened destruction of great magnitude.
Bethie bustled about, fussing with the tea and a small plate of toast. Lorelei accepted both from her outstretched hands.
She nibbled on the toast. “I think I must leave town.”
“Leave town! But the season is in full swing.”
“You must see I cannot stay here. I have important issues to contemplate, and—” She let out a disgusted huff. “Why, I can’t even trust myself. Perhaps Ginny would be willing to bundle up her girls and travel with us.” But, blast it, Thorne had forbid her to travel to Spixworth Hall. Besides, Thorne was right—Norwich was a hot-bed of conflict. Oh, how she hated admitting her husband was right.
Bethie gaped at her, hands fisted at her massive hips. “Yer his lordship’s wife. Course ye have to stay.”
“I-I don’t!” Lorelei insisted. “Must I remind you what we heard and saw the other night?”
Bethie scowled.
“There’s more. Brandon’s valet was m-murdered.”
“Aye, there’s something strange about that.” Bethie turned back to setting the tea right.
“You’d heard?”
“Course, I heard. The news was below stairs two days ago.”
“Two days!” She winced and lowered her voice. “And I suppose you heard that Thorne was asked to identify his body?”
“Aye.”
“Why do I get the notion you have switched courts?”
“His lordship came home and took it upon his own self to set you to rights.”
Lorelei narrowed her eyes on her cheeky maid/general. “Set me to rights?”
“Ye was ill, and he took right care of ye. That man cares for ye.”
Fury shook Lorelei. He took care of her, for certain, and no doubt took care of himself as well, she thought, as the heat between her legs throbbed. “He fathered another woman’s child. Lady Dankworth witnessed him speaking to that same woman in a public street. He sent my helpless brother somewhere, and without a word to me. You remember my brother, don’t you? He’s an artist, not an adventurer.” She dropped the rest of her toast on the plate and shoved the tray away. Mindful of her pounding head, she worked her way to her escritoire and pulled out a sheet of vellum.
Bethie’s pitying look infuriated her.
“Never mind,” she snapped. “Pack for Kimpton. I should like to leave as soon as I hear from Lady Maudsley.”
Thorne escaped to White’s before he did something equally as appalling as he had the night before, knowing he wouldn’t stop at pleasuring Lorelei with just his hands this time. He was past ready to pleasure her with any part of him she preferred. The problem was, she hadn’t been in the proper frame of mind to make the kind of decision he’d made for her.
Soused. She’d been soused. And he’d taken advantage. A man couldn’t go much lower. He dropped his head in his hands.
“You look like hell.” Brock fell into the chair across. “Didn’t you get any sleep?”
“Some,” he mumbled.
“I thought you might be otherwise engrossed today.”
Heat crawled up Thorne’s neck, but with luck the low lighting of the club obscured his embarrassment. He breathed through the discomfort and cleared his throat with a short cough. “Harlowe frequented several poetry readings, salons, and the like, didn’t he?”
“I believe so. What’s this you’re on about?”
Thorne drummed his fingertips on his knee. “Any idea what clubs he belonged to?”
“The usual I imagine. Boodle's. Though perhaps we could enquire at the Eccentric Club, Watier’s, possibly that new one, the Au Courant.”
Thorne lifted a brow, relieved to have his mind on something useful. “Boodle's is certainly a possibility, of course. What do you know of the others?”
“Not much. I’ve heard the patrons of the Eccentric Club are a bit, er, eccentric, hence the name.” Brock waved a hand. “Philosophic.”
“What about the new one? What did you call it?”
“The Au Courant. If I’m not mistaken, they cater to literaries and some of the art set—” Brock shot him an amused grin. “Of course.”
“We’ll start there.” Thorne stood. “Harlowe was up and coming with his work. He’s certainly more talented than I credited him. But what I’
m most interested in is the purpose of that grim symbol showing up in those paintings. The fool might have happened on more than he bargained for.”
A niggle of guilt plagued Lorelei as she and Bethie prepared for their departure to Kimpton. It wasn’t truly leaving Thorne if she resided in their country home, was it? Ginny’s note arrived and it appeared her friend was still quite ill.
She pushed away her doubts and focused on what would be a long carriage ride with a scowling Bethie. It would not be a pleasant ride, but Lorelei supposed she deserved such a fate after seducing her husband into losing his control. Letting Thorne charm his way out of the stunts he’d pulled—well, she just couldn’t. This was the rest of her life. If anything, the carriage ride should allow her time to sort through some of the misgivings plaguing her. The things she seemed to have a difficult time remembering. She tried not to worry and instead focused on the journey ahead.
Staying overnight at the Rose & Crown was a certainty. She’d obviously have to inform Thorne of her plans. She might be angry with him, but she balked at having him risk life and limb looking for her when her travels were but a day.
Armed with an extra dosage of saline draught, as vile as the concoction tasted, Lorelei felt certain she could survive one day. Head high, she handed the missive outlining her plans to a stoic Oswald. Cheeks flushed and eyes averted, she accepted Andrews' assistance into the waiting carriage.
The challenging tasks of locating Miss Hollerfield and Brandon changed nothing.
Dear God, she groaned, dropping her face in her palms. She’d completely forgotten to ask Lady Smythe if her husband could help her find her brother. That settled it. No more brandy for her. Besides, she was perfectly capable of sending missives.
Path decided, Lorelei berated herself into letting it go. She already had enough funds to begin her search for Brandon. If he was still alive. Besides once her committed fortnight was served, she would be set for the rest of her life. Somehow, the thought did not make her feel the least bit satisfied.