Scandalous Lovers

by Diana Ballew

  Corinne’s eyes fluttered, sending a surge of relief through Lorelei. “Miss Hollerfield, Mrs. Wells will be seeing to the needs of the baby—”

  “No—”

  “Please, dear. It’s only to give you adequate time to recover.” Lorelei tipped her head to Mrs. Wells. The wet nurse slipped into the adjoining room.

  Tears welled and Lorelei hastened to reassure her. “Your child is within calling distance, Miss Hollerfield, should you wake and desire to see him. For now, however, I insist you rest. I shall send Agnes in as well.” She took her hand and squeezed lightly. “You are safe here, Corinne.”

  Corinne’s lashes drooped to her cheeks, and Lorelei lay the girl’s hand at her side. Here in Kimpton, at least, Lorelei could give Miss Hollerfield the rest she needed. From the door, Lorelei stopped and glanced back over her shoulder, relieved to see not quite a smile, but less tension in Corinne's young features. Would a man even consider a courtesan’s child? No matter. Lorelei would help this girl in any way possible. No one deserved what she’d been handed.

  She drew a palm over her eyes. Her stomach lurched. There would be no easy way to tell the girl her mother was dead.

  Silence filled the chamber, and Corinne seemed to have drifted into as oblivious a slumber as her infant son.

  Her eyes flickered and opened. “Might I have some water?”

  Lorelei rose and went to the bedside table. She tipped a small amount of laudanum from its brown bottle into the glass and added a measure of water. She put the glass to Corinne's lips. “Sip slowly, Corinne. We ... we must talk. It’s regarding your mother.”

  Corinne swallowed and Lorelei gripped the glass. Corinne looked up with tired, weary eyes. “My mother is dead.”

  “Yes, dear,” she whispered. “She is. I’m so sorry.” What else was there to say?

  Lorelei set the glass on the table and gripped Corinne’s hand. She sat with Corinne for a long while until she was certain Corinne was indeed sleeping soundly.

  After a long while, Lorelei escaped the confines of the chamber and leaned against the wall in the corridor, her eyes burning. A heavy weight pressed her shoulders, constricted her chest, considering the tasks ahead.

  She brushed away a few minute tears and pulled herself up. Whatever reason Rowena Hollerfield had for hiding her child away mattered naught, Lorelei would assist the girl, and if the child did happen to be her nephew, then—

  The clock in the foyer bonged, rousing her from her thoughts. Good heavens, ten o’clock. She’d forgotten Ginny’s girls, hadn’t even checked in on them. Lorelei strode to a flight of stairs that lead to the nursery, determined to reassure herself they were well. Surely they were sleeping as soundly as Corinne by now.

  A light flickered beneath the door, and Lorelei turned the knob quietly. Peg’s head rested on the back of the chair with her mouth open, emitting a small snore. Lorelei looked over at the bed.

  Irene sat up. “Lady Kimpton?”

  “Yes, Irene, it’s me,” she said softly. “Is Cecilia sleeping?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Irene sighed. A sigh that seemed much too old for her seven years. “She could sleep through a London street brawl ... ”

  Quiet filled the chamber, and Lorelei moved across the room and lowered herself to the edge of the bed. “What is it, dear? Are you afraid?”

  “No, but—”

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if you knew when my mother was coming.”

  Lorelei swallowed and braced herself for the second fabrication in a day. “A few days perhaps.”

  “Are you certain it will only be a few days? She was hurt badly, you know.” Again, the notion hit her that Irene was too young to be so old.

  Lorelei reached for her hand. “I can’t promise, of course. But the moment I hear a single thing, I will tell you what I know. Will that help you sleep?”

  Irene nodded. She opened her mouth but then snapped it shut.

  “Irene, was there something else? You can ask me anything. I shall do my utmost to be truthful with you.”

  Large eyes assessed Lorelei. She waited.

  “Would it be too much to trouble you for a hug?” she whispered. “Mother always hugs us before we go to bed.”

  Lorelei pulled Irene into her chest, her heart swelling and breaking at the same time. “Of course not. I shall be here any time you desire a hug.”

  “Might I have one, too?” Cecilia’s sleepy voice piped in.

  Lorelei slipped an arm about Cecilia's tiny body, encompassing both of them. “Of course, darling.” She grappled for control as her voice choked with emotion. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

  “Yes.” Irene’s whisper was most reassuring.

  Cecilia nodded against her chest, and Lorelei slowly let go and tugged the coverlet to their chins. She kissed their foreheads, and with a last glance over her shoulder, she slipped from the room.

  She started for her own chamber, but too much had happened. She would never be able to rest, much like Ginny’s two girls.

  A book to read would not be amiss. That should put her to sleep. A small smile touched her deep inside. For a woman who desperately wanted yet hadn’t had a child of her own, she found she now had three. She made her way to the library and pushed open the door.

  Thorne stood at the windows looking out at the night sky wondering who the devil would wish Rowena dead. There was nothing random about her death. Someone had slammed her head against the wall. That made it personal. An obsessive lover who followed her from London? That seemed the most likely. But he’d known Rowena for years, and one thing she was not—was free with her words.

  A small portion of his brain refused to separate the disappearance of Harlowe and Rowena’s demise as coincidental. Murder in Kimpton was rare, and on his own property? Disturbing. He shuddered to think what Lorelei almost stumbled upon. It sent chills up his spine. He glanced back at the door, hope dwindling that she would search him out.

  Of course, she was exhausted. Still, he pulled out his pocket watch. Ten minutes longer, then he’d ring for Metzger to send for her. The scent of roasted pheasant filled the air, and he was starving, but he held off eating, waiting—hoping ...

  The door creaked behind him. His pulse thumped loudly and he turned. Lorelei paused beneath the arch, surprise etching her features. Her gaze landed on the small table set for two.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” he said.

  His words seemed to startle her into action, and she crossed slowly into the room. “With all the goings-on, I hadn’t once thought of food.” A small smile tipped her lips. “Etiquette dictates that I deny such a vulgar sentiment.”

  “It does indeed.” His pulse slowed, and his own smile surged through. He moved about the table and pulled out her chair. “How is our patient?” he whispered against her neck. He leaned in and breathed in her soft lavender scent.

  A delicate tremble reached through to him. Encouraging.

  “Patient? Oh. Yes, Miss Hollerfield.”

  He made his way across from her and lifted the cover from the pheasant. He filled her plate, then his own. “What other patient did you think I meant?” He glanced up and saw her staring at her food, and immediately regretted the question. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to make light of—”

  “—did you know that Miss Holler—” She stopped. “I mean the other Miss Hollerfield, rather, Rowena Hollerfield was the girl’s mother?”

  He frowned. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

  “She—Rowena—admitted it to me yesterday. But there was something—”

  “Something?”

  She shook her head. “I’m being silly. Of course, the woman was distressed.”

  “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. The woman had been his mistress for more than a year, and that was more than two years ago. The child would have been fourteen, fifteen? Not to mention Rowena’s age. She hadn’t been all that old herself at the time. Good God, she’d have had that child as a c
hild! He glanced up at Lorelei. “You don’t believe her?”

  Lorelei picked up her fork and shrugged. “What’s not to believe? She was terrified. It was heartbreaking.” She pushed the food around on her plate. “Still, I can’t help feeling there was something she was withholding.”

  “Eat, darling.” Thorne paused, his own fork raised. He lowered it back to his plate. “Lorelei, I must thank you for your generosity. There aren’t many women who would have ... have—”

  “Assisted her husband’s former mistress in time of need?” she supplied wryly. She took a small bite.

  He winced. “Nicely put, my dear, but yes.” One could not stay on the subject of one’s former mistress and expect an amicable outcome. “How is the child?”

  She smiled. “Fulfilled. The wet nurse was a godsend. I don’t know how I didn’t think of it.”

  “How could you have when—” He paused, shaking his head, confused by this reaction. “You’ve never had a child—”

  Lorelei’s fork crashed onto her plate. She shoved away from the table and stormed to the door.

  “Lorelei, what the hell?” Thorne was on his feet and rushed to block her exit. If she made her escape, every door available to him would clang shut, and locks rust before any opportunity rose to pry them open again. He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her to face him. “What is it? What did I say?”

  Tears streamed down her face. He swiped them away with his thumbs.

  “How could I have thought of a wet nurse when I’ve never given you a child?” Her anger failed to disguise the self-loathing, the anguish.

  “Is that what you think? That I despise you because you haven’t given me a child?” How could she believe such a thing? Though most marriages were just that, based solely on alliances for money, positioning, prestige, an heir.

  Her lips pressed into a grimace, yet the bleakness in her eyes pierced his heart. “And now my brother, whom you despise, has a son. Living under this very roof.”

  “I don’t despise Harlowe,” he said gruffly. More like resented him. Resented Lorelei’s and his open affection. Thorne bit back a groan. Lord, he was jealous of her damned brother.

  “What is that supposed to mean? I’m worried for him.”

  “As it turns out, I am as well.”

  Her head snapped up. “What are you talking about?”

  He dropped his hold and pushed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t put him on any ship. I didn’t send your brother out of the country.”

  She stalked over to a plush settee and sat stiffly. “Perhaps you’d best explain.”

  “I’ve spent the better part of the week trying to track him down.”

  “Why?” she asked bitterly. “Your disdain has always been obvious. I don’t understand why you dislike him so much.”

  “I told you, I don’t dislike—perhaps a little,” Thorne relented, at her stony expression. “And after Rowena stopped me on the street last week, demanding her audience ...” Fine. He’d lay all his cards on the table. What did he have to lose? Her. But did he even have her?

  Thorne breathed in deeply. “I was prepared to ignore Rowena when I saw her on the street that day. Unfortunately, Lady Dankworth happened by with those two ugly mutts. You have to admit, for her to get wind of any information would be catastrophic.”

  The tension around Lorelei’s mouth lessened. “Yes, well, I’ll concede that point.”

  “She said she was carrying something. I didn’t know what the devil she was talking about, but she demanded I see her. When I ... ” Heat crawled up his neck. One should not have to have a conversation of this sort with one’s wife. He inhaled sharply. “When I went to see her as she demanded, she told me I was the father of her child. I told her we both knew I did not sire that child. She agreed but said no one else would believe it or care.” He blew out a breath. “The nobility does love its gossip,” he muttered.

  Lorelei fell against the back of the sofa. “I see.” But her gaze narrowed on him. “But if she wasn’t with child ... ”

  “She’d made herself look pregnant somehow. How difficult would that have been besides? A strategically placed pillow? Needless to say, I didn’t venture close enough to tell. She told me the babe was Harlowe’s. So I set out to find him.” He shook his head. “Once I’d arrived at Kimpton, I was startled to find she’d gone into labor. She hadn’t appeared at all that far along.”

  “And how is it she ended up at Kimpton?” she demanded.

  Tenderness filled him. “I thought if the babe truly belonged to Harlowe, you would likely kill me if I didn’t offer her my assistance.”

  Her lips formed an adorable pout. “That’s true enough. And, as it turns out, it was her daughter who was with child. Miss Hollerfield went to great lengths to protect Corinne, didn’t she?”

  The compassion in her voice was all the encouragement Thorne needed. He planted himself down next to her. “It certainly appears so.”

  “You never knew about Corinne?”

  “No.”

  She seemed to consider his answer for a moment. “What did you learn about Brandon?”

  Thorne winced and grasped her hand. “That he’s disappeared. No one has seen him for a fortnight. I’m sorry, Lorelei. I have runners looking for him. Something is bound to turn up soon.”

  She looked down at their adjoined hands, nodding. “Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”

  “You didn’t give me much of an opportunity, if you recall,” he said gently.

  “I-I suppose not.”

  He tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to his. “I’ve a confession, however. I’ve learned some things regarding your brother.”

  “What kinds of things?” she whispered.

  “That he is not the tarrying fool I once believed.”

  Indignation flashed in her eyes, she snapped her chin from his fingers. “Of course, he’s not. He’s a very talented artist.”

  Thorne thought of the various works he and Brock had seen, both in London and now, at Kimpton: the discreetly placed scythes, the odd variation in subject matter. The longing on the face of one love-struck model. “Yes, I’m inclined to agree.”

  Surprise registered on her face, just before her eyes, once again, narrowed in suspicion. “What prompted this sudden change?”

  Confessing he thought her brother a spy for the crown did not strike him as a particularly wise move. But likely he could confide some of his findings. “When Brock and I were searching his various haunts around town, I found his interests a bit more diverse than I’d previously suspected.” A slight hedge.

  She sniffed. “I should think so.” She paused, then asked softly, “Like what?”

  “Like—” he flung out his hand. “Like his interest in politics.”

  Her bottom lip puffed out. “I didn’t realize he’d gained an interest in matters of the crown.” That was two of them.

  Thorne was riveted by that plump lip. His mouth watered for the taste of it. How long had it been since he’d kissed her? Thoroughly kissed her? Certainly longer than a week, he’d wager. His fingers tingled for want of touching. He could feel the blood pulsing through his veins, heating up. He felt weak with need.

  Her eyes caught his, and he found he couldn’t look away.

  “And you?” Thorne asked.

  “What about me?” Her hand slipped from his.

  Disappointment filled him—then surprise—as those slender fingers grazed his jaw.

  “What interests you?” Terrified at the answer she might hurl in his face, he kept his tone light. But there was a sensuous huskiness he was unable to disguise, too.

  She leaned forward, and her lips touched his. A guttural sound filled the room. His. She pulled away, and surprised him with a small curl of her lips.

  “Me?” she breathed.

  He lifted his hand and trailed her lips with the tip of his index finger. Her eyes drifted shut, and her head leaned into his touch. His belly tightened in anticipation. He cupped the
nape of her neck and tugged her into him. “You,” he whispered against her ear. Thrills tingled across his skin with her shuddered tremble.

  Though she strived to hide it, she drew a quick breath, releasing it slowly against his cheek. All hot and moist. His cock stiffened. She was contemplating her answer, and the wait would likely kill him. So much to show her. Share with her, but to enlighten her with such lasciviousness would be to cut his nose off to spite his face.

  “Well, shocking you, for one.” Her hand settled over the one resting in his lap.

  His breath hitched.

  She turned his hand palm up and feathered her fingers on the jumping pulse at his wrist.

  “In what possible way could you shock me?” The countless ways filed through his mind much like a deck of cards being shuffled.

  “I might … lift your hand to my lips.” She did. Her tongue teased the center of his palm.

  He swallowed. Hard.

  She shifted away and faced him. He had divested himself of his waistcoat earlier, thank God. Her fingers tugged at his cravat. It unraveled like his careening composure. Before he could catch his breath, her fingers started on the strings that fastened his shirt. She’d never been so forward, and he’d never been so excited. Cool hands slid beneath to his bare skin. Her nails scraped a blazing path along his ribs.

  “Perhaps I would savor the stretch of taut skin over ... ”

  He groaned.

  “What if I—”

  That’s it. He covered her mouth with his. Drove his tongue in that sweet hot mouth and devoured her. Over and over, he delved, unrelenting. Her soft compliance made the skin beneath his hands burn like fire.

  She jerked away and stood.

  He looked up at her, cursing himself for his impatience. Panting, to his disgust, heavily. “What are you doing?” His voice came out cracked, hoarse.

  In a bold move, she grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet. “Take off your pants.”

  Arguing with such a delightful demand was insane, but ... where was this coming from? Had she had lessons beneath his nose, while he’d traipsed about London looking for that absent brother of hers?