One
London, 1818
T
he crack of her hand echoed against the rich wainscoting throughout the entry hall a full second before Thorne registered the heat rising on his cheek from the sting of the blow.
“You bastard,” she hissed.
His surroundings sharpened into brilliant shards of color, from the grooves in the freshly waxed wood, to the flaming tips of the candlelight in the overhead chandelier, to the green velvet drapes and the sheen of Lorelei’s cerulean-blue silk skirts. Fury emanated from every pore of his wife’s slight body. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the fire flashing in her dark blue eyes that ignited the blood to a violent surge through his veins. He’d never witnessed her temper before. Lorelei was renowned for her even keel.
His gaze fell to the missive that dangled from his fingers, stuffed in his hand by some miscreant just as he’d reached the steps of his London townhome, those same fingers singeing as he drew the note to his lower back. He’d had only a second to scan the first line before Oswald, so annoyingly efficient, swung open the door. Words that seared his brain as if branded with a hot medieval iron:That pressing matter we spoke of previously, my darling? I’m certain you remember…Of course he remembered. Hell, it had only been a day ago. And, worse? Fromher.The longtime mistress he’d dismissed—generously so, in his opinion—prior to his and Lorelei’s nuptials a decade ago. Rowena Hollerfield.
Thorne studied his wife then cleared his throat. “I… er… suppose you’ve heard?” He struggled for a bland tone though his face felt made of clay, recalling the event.
Rowena had called out from her carriage, “Lord Kimpton, a moment of your time, if you please.” Pleasant, serene.Strategic.That was Rowena.
His pace had accelerated. She was clever, that one, having the unerring knack of anticipation—of his reluctance.
His good friend, Brock, the Marquis of Brockway, slid an amused sideways glance Thorne’s way. Brock and Thorne had known one another since Eton, which was the only reason Thorne let his friend get away with his nonsense. Thorne picked up his step, choosing to ignore Brock and Rowena. Perhaps he could reach the corner before—
“I’m carrying, sir.” The femininity of her voice tinkled over the early afternoon air and straight down the back of his neck in icy tendrils that snaked about his spine, squeezing each and every vertebra. Carrying what? And why the hell should he care? He’d long since settled with her by way of a pricey set of emerald earbobs.
But a cloud of doom hovered over him, and he pulled up short. Thorne shot a glance about. Thankfully, most of the pedestrians had shifted their paths to the opposite side of the street. All but the notorious Lady Dankworth and her maid, touting two of the ugliest dogs he’d ever seen.
He managed to suppress a groan. Rowena’s voice dipped in that dramatic pause that had once thrilled him, but now grated over his skin like sanded paper. After assuring himself that the Dankworth woman was clearly out of earshot, he sauntered over to Rowena’s elaborate conveyance. She’d left him with no choice, after all. Reaching her carriage, he tipped his hat, when he longed to throw it to the ground and stomp on it in a fit of temper. “What the devil are you up to, Rowena?”
She sniffed. Nothing like a cry, but more a condescending huff through a delicate piece of lace she held at her nose. “I’m carrying, sir. A child.Yourchild.”
“What!” He checked his tone and again glanced about for too-close passersby. If Lady Dankworth heard anything as titillating as this, true or not, it would be the talk of London in all of twenty minutes. “That is ludicrous, Rowena, and you know it.” He spoke softly but sternly.
The woman was as beautiful as ever, lifting one perfectly shaped brow and gracing him with the cynical smile with which he’d become familiar. Her lilting tone never changed despite her hardened expression. “Perhaps. But we both know the circles in which you travel. Scandalisthe driving force, my lord.” She plucked a piece of lint from her shoulder and flicked it in his direction. And after a long pause, she planted the figurative blow with a well-placed clout to his jaw. “If you must know, the child is Lord Harlowe’s.”
Thorne froze, then narrowed his gaze on her.Thathe could certainly believe. Brandon Radcliff, Viscount Harlowe, had an artistic temperament that was a draw to many women. The man spouted poetic dribble at the drop of a hat.
Rowena relaxed against the cushions, revealing she was not alone. Her traveling companion sat deep within the shadows, eyes lowered, though he knew the girl took in every word. The small cynical smile returned, highlighting a coldness in Rowena’s exotic dark eyes. Her beauty had nothing on Lorelei. “I shall send word when it is convenient for us to talk. And make no mistake—wewilltalk,” she said. “How perfectly lovely seeing you again, Lord Kimpton. ’Tis almost like old times. I shall see you soon—”
“How could you!” Lorelei’s hurt cry yanked him back from his scattered thoughts.
Hurting Lorelei was the last thing Thorne had intended. How was it possible she had learned so quickly? Lady Dankworth couldn’t have heard the slightest bit of his conversation with Rowena. She’d seen, however.
Frantic images of Lorelei barring her door or, worse, removing herself to their country estate whipped through him. The promises he’d made upon her acceptance of his proposal filed neatly through his head.I will not be made a laughing stock, my lord. My dowry may be non-existent, but I have my pride.“Lorelei, darling, your broth—”
“Don’t youdarespeak to me of my brother.”
Thorne smoothed a hand over his cravat, the stiff fabric calming in direct contrast to the emotions raging through him. He’d never been a smooth one with words. That was her brother’s specialty. But, by God, this washishome. Here, he was king, in control.
Lorelei was the wife, dammit. Didn’t he own her, in the eyes of the law? What a fool he was. He wanted nothing but her happiness. But to confess his feelings? Now? A shudder of revulsion skittered up his spine.
Still, she meant everything to him. He pulled in a deep breath. He’d face her wrath, and after she calmed a bit, he would explain everything. He let out a resigned sigh. “She means nothing to me.”
“She?” The high-pitched astonishment bounded off the foyer walls, stinging his ears.
Ah, hell.
Lorelei drew herself up to her full height of five feet, four inches. She barely reached his chin in the dainty heels, and she spun away. She made it up two steps of the grand staircase before she threw over her shoulder, “I’ll be out of the house by the day’s end.”
That stung and infuriated him. “And where do you propose to go?”
