Scandalous Lovers

by Diana Ballew

  “I believe the earl refers to your impending nuptials with his ... long-lost daughter.” Griston grinned at Welton. “Congratulations, old man; as a baron’s son, you’ve just been granted the coveted opportunity to enhance your social connections.”

  The wild-eyed panic in Welton’s face was priceless. Maudsley threw back his head. Laughter rumbled from his chest, startling the surrounding patrons. “That you have, son.”

  Chapter 18

  Lorelei arched and stretched, feeling like a well-fed feline. Slowly, she opened her eyes and blinked at the unfamiliar setting. The dark furnishings were nothing like the soft ivory duvet and lace curtains in her own chamber.

  Oh, yes. She’d seen the younger girls to bed and never made it to her own chambers after arriving late the night before. Thorne had been waiting just outside the nursery door for her. She’d stepped in the hall, and he’d swept her up in a mind-tingling rush of ardent kisses.

  A heavy arm fell across her midsection, then dragged her back against the heated warmth of her husband.

  “And what are your plans for today, my dear?” He growled against her neck, sending an onslaught of delicious tremors over her.

  She closed her eyes, reveled in the weight of his arm over her. “I can’t think of anything so urgent at this very moment.”

  “I can.”

  He turned her head. His tongue swept into her mouth. His hand slid up her ribs to her breast, his arousal hot and growing against her backside. His leg moved between hers. She met his tongue stroke for stroke. She pressed her sex against his thigh.

  His mouth broke from hers. “You like that, do you?”

  “Mm. I do.” She twisted her body, facing him. She lay on her side, her nose in his sternum. She breathed in the scent of their lovemaking. Ran her hands over the muscled contour of his bare chest. She traced one palm down his side to his hip bone and nudged him back, just enough. She clasped his penis. Heat warmed her fingers.

  His quick inhale sent desire surging between her legs. She gripped harder and his mouth possessed hers again. The rhythm of his tongue matched that of her hand. He rolled to his back, pulling her over him. Moved to her jaw, her collarbone. Brushed his fingers over her nipples, cupped her breasts, tortured her with his teeth and tongue. His fingers trailed her stomach to the wet cleft of her sex, pressed the hidden nub with his thumb ...

  She gasped.

  One finger stole inside, and again she gasped. “More,” she begged.

  He lifted her up and she guided him in. He surged up and deep. A guttural sound rumbled from his chest to hers. He sucked her nipple, first one, then the other. She danced with him, meeting every thrust. Thrust after thrust. The explosion of sparks erupted in a scream she covered in his shoulder. He surged up one last time. Hot seed filled her.

  She bent over him. Spent and panting, her breath matching his. Their hearts pounded in synchronization of a well-rehearsed symphony. Tears burned, welled up from the emotion roiling within. To her dismay, one leaked out.

  He took her shoulders and lifted her. “What is this?” His thumb brushed her eye.

  “Nothing.”

  He kissed another one away. “Of course. Nothing.”

  Her throat clogged. You, she wanted to say. You, I love you. She could still feel the pulse of his softening erection. It throbbed inside of her, as if it were the breath of her. His lips touched her neck.

  “You should rest today,” he said.

  “Rest?” She pulled in her emotion and pushed off of him. “Impossible. We returned in the dead of the night. There is too much to do. We have guests.”

  Her attempt was futile. He tugged her back to his chest. “Yes, we do. But we also have servants.”

  She angled her head, letting him nibble at her neck. It was most pleasant. “True, but Cecilia and Irene cannot be left to servants. I wouldn’t feel right deserting them for an entire day.” Not to mention Corinne. She’d heard the girl sobbing into her pillow each night. And each morning, she was more pale and wan than the day before. Those sentiments Lorelei swallowed. Miss Hollerfield would be humiliated learning such a topic had been discussed.

  “I suppose not, but you can at least enjoy a moment of solitude.”

  “Solitude?” A bubble of laughter grew in her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in quite some time.

  Thorne lifted her up, forcing her gaze to his. Laughter creased about his eyes in small wrinkles. She touched them. What a handsome man, her husband. She traced his lips with her fingertips.

  “How are we to find Brandon?” She almost regretted the question when his lips firmed and his eyes turned grim.

  “That is the question, isn’t it? We’ll find him, love.” He disengaged himself from her body, dropping a quick kiss on her lips. “Stay here, I’ll ring for tea.”

  Thorne bounded from the bed, tossing his silk wrapper her way, then disappearing to the water closet.

  Determined not to waste another moment of the morning before temptation took hold, Lorelei slipped on the wrapper and crawled off the bed. She gathered her dress from the floor, went to the door adjoining their chambers and turned the handle. Locked. Her head fell against it in a low thud. She lifted her head and stole a glance over her shoulder.

  Thorne stood there in all his naked glory, brow lifted. Fire crept up her neck. To his credit, he declined commenting.

  She cleared her throat. “I, um, will unlock the door.” She moved to the other door, but he beat her there, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her roughly.

  “See that you do. I’ve missed you.” He stepped around her, opened the door to the hall, and leaned his head out. His grin was decidedly wicked when he turned back to her. “There’s no one about.”

  She had nothing to add. With shoulders back, head high, she stalked past, her lips still tingling, heart pounding. She went through to her bedchamber, closed the door, and leaned back against it. Why did she have to love him so much? Would she change it? Never.

  Smiling, she went to the chest of drawers, took the key from her jewel case, and slipped it in the lock. She should have realized locking him out would be more detrimental to her. Worse, her approach upon hearing he’d dumped her brother on a boat bound for God knew where should have been to instigate a mature conversation. Not to take the irrational actions of a fishwife.

  Lorelei rang for hot water, then went to the wardrobe and dropped the wrapper. She didn’t have long to wait.

  “Somethin’s not right in here,” Bethie bellowed.

  “Goodness, Bethie. Are you trying to rouse the entire household?” Lorelei peered out from the closet. Bethie stood in the center of the chamber, fists on her massive hips, staring at the mantle above the hearth. “Keep your voice down.”

  “I’m telling ye, there’s somethin’ wrong.”

  Panic fluttered in Lorelei’s belly. This was not normal Bethie behavior. Lorelei swept the wrapper from the floor, slipping it back on as she rushed from the closet. “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  It took Lorelei a full minute to realize the problem. “Brandon’s painting, it’s gone. But who would take it?” The work was certainly not a favorite of hers, quite ghastly, in fact, depicting Judas’s betrayal of Jesus. Still, it showcased Brandon's incredible talent. “Help me dress. Quickly, Bethie.”

  Lorelei dressed in record time, aware that her usually immaculate hair was so untidy that it would likely create a fainting frenzy with the servants. But someone had been in their home, her bedchamber, and stolen, at the very least, a picture Brandon had left in her keeping.

  She darted down the stairs to the library. The painting of her at the piano was also gone. Lightheaded and faint, she flew to the dining room. Two more works, gone!

  “Lady Kimpton? Is something wrong?”

  Lorelei started and glanced around. Steam rose from the sideboard, where shiny silver services offered eggs, kippers, and bacon. The aroma filling the room made her ill. Corinne sat at the table sipping tea, watching her
, expression puzzled. The walls were bare. Brandon’s paintings ... all of them ... gone. Stolen.

  “Darling, what is it? You’re positively white.” Thorne took her by the shoulders and guided her to a chair. She hadn’t even noticed him. “Sit. Oswald, tea for Lady Kimpton.”

  “You must excuse me. I think I’m going to be ill,” she whispered.

  “Take slow breaths, darling.” He wrapped her hands around a warm cup. “Drink,” he commanded.

  She sipped. Warmth seeped through his fingers to hers. The tea was strong and sweet. Slowly, her head cleared. His paintings, gone. Left in her care.

  “That’s better. Now, what has you so upset?” he asked gently.

  Tears fell down her cheeks. “Someone broke in. Brandon’s paintings. All of them. Gone.”

  “Ah, hell,” he muttered. “Lorelei—” A crash sounded from behind.

  Miss Hollerfield’s cup hit the floor in shattered brilliance. Tea spilled in every direction. Her lips and fingers trembled, and her large, brown eyes were wide.

  Lorelei saw it right away. She was the girl in the painting. The one Brandon had handed over, smiling softly, saying how particularly fond he was of that one.

  Thorne rose. “Mind the glass at your feet, Miss Hollerfield.” Glass crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the young woman and plucked her from her chair. “Please, ladies, come with me. Oswald, have Andrews see to the debacle in the dining hall, at once.” He set Miss Hollerfield on her feet outside the door and took Lorelei’s arm.

  Lorelei sniffed. “What on earth are you about, Thorne?”

  He dug out his handkerchief and shoved it in her hand, never slowing his pace across the foyer to his study. He ushered both women in.

  She was speechless. Each missing painting Brandon had sent her for safekeeping was lined across two walls. Relief spilled through her. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed. “He’d entrusted them to me.” She counted them, then turned to Thorne, brows furrowed. “I don’t understand. Why would you take them from the walls?”

  Corinne gasped. Lorelei spun. Thorne caught the woman up before she hit the floor. He set her in a large chair near the fire.

  “Miss Hollerfield?”

  Tears fell down her cheeks in great rivulets, but she nodded. Thorne patted his pockets for another handkerchief, but Lorelei thrust the one she held into the girl’s hand. Her eyes were fastened on one picture in particular.

  Thorne garnered a look at Miss Hollerfield. “I was having them appraised,” he said mildly.

  Lorelei narrowed her eyes on him, hands fisted at her sides. She stepped forward. “Appraised?” she demanded softly. His gaze latched onto her lips, and her skin pricked with heat. Only a momentary distraction. She swallowed. But she wasn’t the only one. He did the same.

  He broke his gaze from hers and glanced over at Miss Hollerfield, wincing. “Lorelei, perhaps we should see to our guest. She is quite distraught.”

  Lorelei followed his gaze. Lord. It didn’t appear as if Corinne’s waterworks would be ending anytime soon.

  Lorelei rushed over. “Corinne.” She took her by the upper arms and shook her to get her attention. “What is it? What has you so distraught?”

  She blinked up at Lorelei. “That picture. That picture was from the day we met. I-I didn’t pose for him,” she whispered. “He must have panted it from memory.”

  Lorelei pulled her into a hug.

  “Where is he? He wouldn’t have left me. He knew.” Panic filled the room with her fear.

  “He knew?” Thorne exploded.

  Lorelei shot him a pointed look. “That is quite enough, my lord. Perhaps you will excuse us. I shall see Miss Hollerfield to her chambers, where she can pull herself together.” She kept her arm wrapped about Corinne and led her to the door. She stopped and glared over her shoulder. “You shall not sell my brother's paintings.”

  Thorne’s low growl followed her from the room. A small satisfied smile blossomed in her chest. “Come, dear. You mustn’t agonize over matters that are easily righted,” she said briskly.

  “My apologies, Lady Kimpton, and after all your kindness. I’m an ungrateful wretch.”

  “Nonsense,” Lorelei told her. They mounted the stairs.

  “It’s just ... it’s just Brandon—I’m sorry. Lord Harlowe told me he wished for his works to convey a message.”

  “You may certainly refer to my brother as Brandon, Corinne. After all, it appears you have a child together.” She would kill him herself once she found him. How dare he leave this ... this girl and her child to such a fate with nary a word? Surely she’d taught him better. “All great artists wish for their works to reveal a message. Rembrandt was known for his profound humanity. Renowned for depicting a model’s mood and inner thoughts by accentuation of his or her physical and facial features.” They stopped before Corinne’s bedchamber. Lorelei patted her shoulder with affection. “Bernardo Bellotto’s works represent a great study of architecture, and—”

  “—Lady Kimpton, I appreciate what you are trying to say, but I believe Brandon meant something quite different.”

  Lorelei should have taken offense at Corinne’s obvious exasperation. But the fire and insistence in the girl warmed her greatly. “Yes, yes. I do go on. I fear my brother inherited his love of art from me. His talent” —she flung a hand out— “elsewhere. I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.” Lorelei opened the door and ushered Corinne in. “Now, wash your face, dear, and let us see about taking the children—”

  “Miss Elvin? What are you doing in my bedchamber?” Corinne frowned.

  Indeed, Sarah stood in the middle of the room, Nathan pressed to her chest.

  “Oh, my. You startled me,” she said in a breathless rush. “Mrs. Wells is feeling ill. I offered to take care of the baby.”

  “Thank you, Miss Elvin.” Corinne squared her shoulders and marched over to Sarah. “I appreciate your offer. But I think I can handle the position.” She firmly, but gently, extracted Nathan from Sarah.

  “Were you preparing to take him to the gardens, Miss Elvin? I see you have your cloak on.”

  Lorelei watched the exchange with a subtle sense of unease. The two did not care for one another at all. “That is a wonderful notion,” she said in a determined, yet cheerful manner. “Why don’t we fetch Cecilia and Irene as well? It’s shaping up to be a lovely morning.”

  Waiting just beyond the carriage path in Hyde Park did not guarantee Edward would not be seen. The risks were great, but things were not going well. He forced himself to take a deep breath, unclenched his fingers, and pulled a coin from his pocket. It wasn’t his lucky coin—that one appeared lost forever. He tossed it in the air and caught it.

  Griston’s idea of claiming Corinne Hollerfield—Ninnis, he corrected—as his long lost daughter was brilliant. And that she had already borne a son was most reassuring. The problem lay in the child’s bastardy. But with Griston’s help, Edward was all but assured his legacy.

  He pitched the coin up and snatched it from the air as theory after theory roiled in his head. Sadly, the child belonged to Harlowe; that much he knew. But had they married? And how to find out?

  Harlowe was a fool. Even having him beaten senseless, the man refused to offer any information. Perhaps he hadn’t realized Corinne was carrying his child. No. The man had been more astute than he presented, and Edward had realized it too late. An artist! He’d been conned by an artist.

  Again tossing up the coin, he caught it and huffed out a frustrated breath. What the hell did it matter? He had enough money to forge a marriage certificate, and marrying Corinne off to Welton was nothing short of genius.

  He looked out over the small lake. A family of ducklings paddled their way across.

  Dammit. Sarah should have shown up an hour ago. He hurled the coin, just missing the runt of the flock. They paddled away none the wiser, content in ignoring him.

  He willed back his temper. Alienating his only way into Kimpton’s inner sanctum would be d
isastrous. Harlowe had somehow learned Edward’s secrets and documented them. Panic welled up in his chest, but he forced it back. He needed his wits about him. He forced himself to calm, then loosened his fingers from their tight fists, flexed his fingers, sucking in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He forced himself to concentrated on the breeze stirring the leaves. Another breath, and his pulse slowed. Then another.

  Each inhalation allowed the oxygen to flow, and his fraying temper eased. Edward repeated the effort until chirping birds and the distant clopping hooves of horses penetrated his fogged brain. He turned his gaze to the path. A few people milled about. A slow smile started in his chest.

  Little Sarah was growing up. His need for her would wane soon. Her drab brown frock hid her pert breasts and flat stomach, her lean legs. He did love a young girl. Soon he’d have to visit the exclusive society to which he and Griston belonged.

  A knot of fury started in a slow pounding against his ribs. Even Edward drew the line at a seven-year-old girl. Griston, however, showed no such conscience. Turning Irene over to the bastard was an evil necessity. He shook his head. London was chock full of girls to choose from.

  With a harsh breath he cut off that direction of thought, focusing on Sarah’s auburn curls escaping their confines in her haste. Her compressed lips sent a surge of lust through him. The familiar urge to tease her mouth apart raced through his veins. The silly girl. Her aspirations of becoming the lady of the house were useful, an easy way to procure information from her.

  Her eyes darted about until they found his. Her steps wavered.

  With the patience of a saint, he waited until she made her way off the path and stood before him. He smiled. “You’re late, my dear.”

  She flinched as if he’d slapped her. “I-I ... ”

  Poor, poor child. He clucked his tongue and took one of her fisted hands and tucked it in the crease of his arm. “Sarah, darling. Don’t fret. It’s a difficult task I’ve asked of you.”

  “T-thank you, my lord.”