He blinked rapidly in disbelief, the sting against his shaven cheek overshadowing the reality that she had just hit him.
His gaze lurched to hers.
She stepped back, covering her mouth with a hand.
The look in those haunting, dark eyes and in that face told him everything he needed to know. It was over. Whatever had induced her to step outside their friendship for that one brief moment, to kiss him and downright strip his cravat, was gone. Maybe it had never been there at all.
The sudden denial was an all-too-familiar ache. It felt as though he were married to Anne all over again.
He half nodded, acknowledging the very thing he had feared, reaffixed his clothing and turned away, wrapping his cravat back into place and tying it. Without a word, he left.
CHAPTER ONE
A month later—late evening
The Kent House
A GROUP OF TITLED YOUNG MEN, barely at an age to be called men, really, lingered within an elbow’s reach of her just beyond the crowds. They paused in between low, conspiratorial tones, their gazes drifting from the faces of passing women to their cleavages and back again with the stealth of spiders planning an ambush. Several of them inclined their heads toward unsuspecting victims, wishing to make their presence known.
This, from her own son’s peers.
And it didn’t even include the rest of male society.
Dowager Countess of Kent, Magdalene Evelyn Ryder, sidled herself closer toward the main entrance of the ballroom, angling herself out of view. At what age did men mature? If ever? And at what age did a woman cease having to deal with men acting as if they owned the right to lustfully indulge in a woman, be it with his eyes or hands?
There was more to a woman than a womb and breasts.
Drawing in a breath, Magdalene let it out, trying to focus on her guests. Countless individuals from every level of aristocratic society whisked forward and back across the dance floor, advertising their extravagant coifs and lavish ensembles. Refined smiles and glances flitted across those flushed faces as they elegantly turned and paired off one by one for the quadrille, floating effortlessly to the strains of the violin.
Knowing there was only one dance left before the night found its end—thank God—Magdalene restlessly turned her attention back to her son’s tall figure. He jutted well above the squat men alongside the far wall where he lingered in solitude near the open doors of the garden.
She paused as he dug into his evening coat pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound sketchbook. Those refined features remained unflinchingly calm amidst the blur of gaiety as he dabbed the tip of his graphite stick against his tongue, lowered his dark gaze and used the quick stroke of a hand to draw what appeared to be his interpretation of ballroom life. It was very much like Charles to sketch at a time when sketching was simply not an option.
He hadn’t danced once. As usual. Nor did he appear to have an interest in any of the women in attendance, unlike the rest of his virile little friends. Whatever set of introductions she had provided in the hopes of sparking his curiosity or conversation had been endured with typical edged politeness. She didn’t expect him to marry quite yet, and she supposed she should be happy that he didn’t ogle young ladies the way his peers did, but she did expect him to acknowledge people and converse. Or at the very least look at them. The rules of society demanded it, and yet he had no interest in following societal rules.
Shaking her head, she considered going over and speaking to him, when an astonishingly well-built gentleman with coal-black hair, garbed in dark, dashing evening attire, casually leaned against the wall beside Charles and began conversing with him.
Charles grinned, slapping his sketchbook shut, and tucked everything back into his pocket as he turned to the man with unprecedented enthusiasm. It was an exceptional interest he only ever showed one man.
Thornton.
Her stomach flipped and then flopped realizing that the man with Charles was, in fact, none other than Thornton himself.
Her new nemesis. Of sorts.
They had actually once been neighbors, and though Thornton had long since moved to a different square, they had remained the best of friends for years. They had a lot in common. They were both parents, widows, had been miserable in their respective marriages, and neither of them were interested in getting involved with the opposite sex ever again. They even cheekily toasted to it twice a year, on the anniversary of each of their spouses’ deaths.
Until one afternoon, whilst playing chess and having their brandies, he heatedly scanned her breasts with a searing enthusiasm she’d never seen, leaned across the board and kissed her. At first, she hadn’t known what to do. And then, she’d known exactly what to do and, much to her dismay, it involved her own tongue.
In a blur she could only blame on brandy, she’d whipped off his cravat and pushed open his shirt beneath his vest. That was when she realized their friendship, which she cherished beyond all else, was at an end and was giving way to meaningless lust. Or rather, harmful lust, which had only maimed her in life thus far. So, despite her attraction to him, she’d panicked and smacked him for introducing the kiss in the first place. She had smacked him a bit harder than she’d intended, and of course, without a word, he’d left.
He’d been avoiding her ever since.
Even though she’d written him countless letters apologizing for her behavior and had invited him to every event she had hosted, hoping to rekindle their friendship, he hadn’t responded. Not once. Not even so much as to tell her When Hell descends, which she would have preferred over piercing silence. So why had he come tonight? And so late? And so unannounced? To wage a war she wasn’t prepared to fight?
God, did she ever need a brandy.
She paused, noting that the crowded ballroom surrounding her had become unusually…smoky. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose against the acrid stench. It was as if a chute within one of the chimneys had been left closed. She glanced toward the large double doors beside her and froze.
Her gaze drifted upward, toward a hazy, gray-black smoke that wisped through the upper-top of her white Grecian archway. Her eyes widened. Had the chef gone mad with one too many bushels of charcoal in the stove?
Servants suddenly appeared beyond that same archway, each hoisting enormous wooden buckets. Several guests paused from their lively conversations to watch as the servants bustled past the entryway, one by one, splashing and trailing water across the marble floor of the corridor. The servants disappeared, all heading with said buckets toward the direction of the parlor.
Oh, no. She hurried toward the doorway, her breath hitching.
A bewigged footman in red livery and white silk stockings appeared and darted toward her. He skidded to a halt, keeping her from entering the main corridor. “My lady.” He leaned in and rasped, “Someone set fire to the parlor.”
She gasped. “As in, on purpose?”
“Not exactly.”
She glanced toward the corridor beyond them where the smoke plumed, her heart pounding. “Dearest God. Should we be evacuating people?”
He intently met her gaze and offered with austere gravity, “It would be best.”
“Move everyone out at once.”
“Yes, my lady.” He disappeared out into the corridor and returned with a gaggle of footmen. They all barreled into the ballroom, darting left and right through the crowds, yelling over the still-playing orchestra. Their reverberating shouts soon penetrated the entire room. “Fire!” they boomed, one by one by one. “Move out! Everyone please move out toward the direction of the garden!”
The instruments petered off. There was a momentary lapse of stillness, followed by the rapid scrambling of booted and slippered feet and a most unnecessary echoing slew of “Fire!”
Oh, for heaven’s
sake!
Panicked screams of women, young and old, and the escalating shouts of men trying to guide others filled the ballroom as everyone turned in chaotic unison toward the only entrance left in the room that wasn’t emitting smoke: the verandah. Amidst the frenzy of blurred faces and shoving coats and gowns, she momentarily glimpsed Thornton shoving Charles out through the open doors beside them, which led into the garden.
Thank God they were safe.
Though she tried to weave through the crush of bodies toward them, she found herself unable to. Magdalene coughed against the now biting, hazy air as the resistance of the crowd bobbed her more backward than forward. Smoke snaked its way from the ornate main corridor across sections of the high Grecian ceiling, making her lips part in horror. More than a settee was burning.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to wedge past the surrounding wall of bodies, only to stumble. She was going to die. On her own dance floor!
“Magdalene.” Thornton jumped toward her, his sharp green eyes capturing hers amidst the clamor. His rugged features tightened as he grabbed her waist, startling her with not only his presence but the strength of his hold. Turning her toward the direction of the terrace, he commenced guiding her forcefully through the throng of people.
She glanced up at him, her heart pounding but blissfully happy knowing he thought her worthy of rescuing. “Thornton.”
Someone violently shoved her in a desperate effort to move past, breaking their hold. She gasped and tumbled to the floor, her body instantly swallowed by a mass of swarming, pushing limbs. Booted feet now kicked and stepped and climbed over her without pause, and though she tried to scramble up amidst panicked breaths, too many people kept rushing past and none of them seemed to care if she lived or died.
“Magdalene!” Thornton thrust people aside and jumped toward her through the torrent of bodies. He grabbed her by the arms and yanked her up and off the floor with unprecedented strength. “These people are mad. If the fire doesn’t kill us, they will.”
He savagely tucked her against his towering frame, the scent of sandalwood faintly wafting through the acrid, smoky air. Those muscled arms tightened around her, mashing her cheek against his chest as he veered them through the crowd with his body.
Magdalene clung to his embroidered waistcoat as he hurried them forward and onto the crowded terrace. People rushed out into the darkened gardens beyond, their shouts echoing all around and lifting up to the cloudless, starry night sky above.
Despite the fray, a sense of strange serenity descended upon her knowing that Thornton was not only back in her life but in her arms. She could now openly admit to herself that, yes, the month without him had been torturous and beyond lonely. She had stared at their unfinished chess game for hours thinking about him and that kiss and how confused she was knowing that she had wanted him naked all along. Such had been the case for quite some time, much to her consternation, but she had taken sweet refuge knowing that he would never overstep the bounds of their cherished friendship by making her face it.
She’d been wrong.
Her throat tightened as she glanced up at him. His shadowed profile remained intently focused on the path before them as he strategically moved them left and right and left again, rounding others. She shouldn’t have smacked him. He wasn’t a man to be feared, as her late husband had been. Thornton had always been a good friend. One of the few she’d had in life.
A cool gust of night air slapped her heated face, sweeping her back into the reality that her house was on fire. Scrambling against Thornton’s strong hold, she wrenched herself loose to look back at the house, stumbling on the edge of the stone steps that led out into the garden. The open doors of the ballroom held an eerie stillness as a thick haze dimmed the brightness of the chandeliers and muted the appearance of the bright honey walls to a yellow-gray.
“Stay here,” Thornton said as he dodged past her and jogged back up the stairs, making his way back into the smoke-filled house.
She pivoted toward the direction he’d gone. “Thornton!” Her heart pounded as she watched his large frame disappear back into the wavering haze of the ballroom. She frantically headed after him. “Thornton!”
A hand hooked her arm and yanked her back toward the terrace. “Mother.” Charles jerked her around, grabbed her hands and squeezed them hard.
She hissed out a breath. “Charles. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Thornton pushed me straight out before I even knew what was happening. I haven’t seen him since.”
Her stomach roiled as she whipped toward the house, realizing that Thornton still hadn’t come back out. Oh, God. Gathering her skirts, she hurried back inside.
“Mother, what— Where the hell are you going?” he shouted from outside. “The house is on fire!”
“I know! Believe me, I know! Stay there!” she shouted back and dashed on.
CHAPTER TWO
THICK SMOKE STUNG MAGDALENE’S watering eyes as she bounded toward the direction of the fire. Coughing spastically against the sooty air that crawled into her throat, she pushed onward, chanting to herself to grab Thornton and get out.
Male shouts drifted from beyond. She hurried toward them and skidded to an abrupt halt upon reaching the foyer that led toward the parlor. A cool, welcoming breeze gushed past through the entrance doors which had been pushed wide open, revealing the moonlit, starry night beyond.
“Faster! Move those buckets faster!” Thornton’s harsh command echoed all around her.
To her astonishment, Thornton and all of her servants, footmen, coachmen, stable hands, the steward and the butler alike, stood in a single, regulated line that impressively extended from the kitchen all the way to the hazy parlor.
Bucket after bucket of water was passed from hand to hand down the length of the corridor toward Thornton whose muscled frame stood waiting within the entrance of the parlor. Having tossed his evening coat to the marble floor, he now wore only an embroidered vest and white linen shirt that grew increasingly transparent as water splashed out of the bucket and repeatedly soaked his sleeves. That shirt indecently clung to muscled arms as he savagely tossed more water out onto a smoking carpet before handing back the empty bucket and grabbing a new one.
She edged back against the wall, watching Thornton in a half daze. There were so many times she had secretly wished her son would become just like him. Strong, valiant and reliable.
She worried for the thousandth time that she hadn’t done enough for Charles during his upbringing, and that she was the reason why he hadn’t become the man she now wished he could be. Of course…at one and twenty, he was still young. There was still time for him to grow, though, in truth, she feared he would never be more than he already was: flippant toward society and his duties as earl. He was a wonderful son to her, caring and kind, but it was as if he didn’t care if his name or the estate crumbled. If it didn’t involve his sketching or her, he simply didn’t care.
Handing off the last wooden bucket, Thornton hissed out a breath, swiping cascading strands of black hair out of his eyes. “Enough.” He stepped back, scanning the parlor.
She scrambled forward. “’Tis contained?”
The butler turned and called out, “That it is, my lady.”
“For now,” Thornton added, not bothering to turn. “Your settee, the Persian rug and some of the chairs weren’t quite as fortunate.”
She stared awkwardly at that broad back. “I am indebted to you, Thornton. Thank you.”
He glanced at her from over his shoulder, those green eyes meeting her gaze for a long, searing moment. “What happened?”
Heat splashed her entire body, realizing they were facing each other in sudden stillness for the first time since… “I don’t know.”
“Mother?” Charles skidded to a halt beside her. He shook he
r, his face ablaze with emotion. “What the hell were you thinking running back into a flame-ridden house?”
She assuredly squeezed his arms. “Cease yelling. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Releasing her with a breath, Charles glanced toward the obscure parlor and staggered. “Jesus bloody Christ.” He scrubbed his hair, mussing his dark tonic hair. “What…how did the fire even start?”
Mr. Beagle, the footman, rounded them, gesturing in exasperation toward the parlor. “The butler caught a young woman rifling through the writing desk. She attempted to flee and knocked over one of the lamps. We’ve detained her up in the garret. She had the audacity to insist that Lord Kent himself had stolen something and that she was merely looking to retrieve it.”
Magdalene jerked toward Charles. “What?”
He gaped. “Mother, I didn’t—” He eyed her, edging back. “I just… I—” He winced and averted his dark gaze, falling into a silence he usually retreated to when overwhelmed.
She lowered her chin, sensing something wasn’t quite right. Moving toward him, she touched his arm and asked in a tone she hoped would assure him that she wasn’t angry. Yet. “Charles? What are you not telling me?”
He pushed her arm away. “I would rather we not…” He swiped his face. “You would never understand.”
She? Not understand?
All but a breath ago she had considered her relationship with him to be unbreakable. He was the only child out of four to have survived birth and had been her greatest comfort through the black woes of a twelve-year marriage to his father. Charles had been the only reason she had survived.
Despite fleeing with him into the night on many occasions, only to be dragged back by her husband again and again and again, that little hand would lovingly touch her bruised face and whisper with childlike staid assurance, “Mama, maybe tomorrow he won’t be angry.” That promise had miraculously come true when Adam had been found dead in the water closet one morning, his trousers still slung around his booted feet. His heart had stopped in the middle of his business.
Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for MarriageThe Wedding PartyUnlaced (Lester Family) Page 35