The strength to override her bossy maid had waned. Her body’s wavering from hot to cold and back threatened her ability to stand. “The d-door—”
“Never you mind. I’ll git it,” Bethie said, pulling it back.
A strange man stood under the portico with his hat in his hand. A tarnished shine of metal on his dark-blue coat winked in the harsh candlelight of the foyer. Each detail touched Lorelei’s sluggish mind. His coat was worn to the point of being threadbare. His gruff features: squinting eyes, a chin badly in need of a razor. The candles in the chandelier flickered wildly. He spoke, exposing rotting teeth. “I’m Constable Davies—” The sight should have terrified her.A constable didn’t belong here.Her conscious self couldn’t seem to grasp the absurdness of such a silly thought, instead leaving her feeling… otherworldly, until ghost-gray eyes appeared just beyond the greasy hair of his head.
Her knees gave out, and she sank into a swell of blackness.
Brock stopped, his gaze fastened on Virginia Ninnis’s full lips forming a perfectly shaped OasKimpton swept his wife from sight at the top of the grandiose stairway. A shot of lust hit him. Ginny had a unique knack for doing that to him.
Slowly she turned, her eyes surveying the remaining players—the dripping constable, the proper butler—and finally stopping and resting on him. A soft blush crawled up her neck, infusing her cheeks. “Well, I must be going.” She spoke loudly, perhaps an attest to her scattered senses.
Brock reveled in her discomfort for a moment, then with a gallant bow, he said, “I shall see you home.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “That shan’t be necessary.” These words were spoken a bit lower and possibly hissed.
The exchange came off as somewhat awkward. The constable had moved inside and shifted his weight from one side to the other. His wet clothes dripped a pool of dirty water on the marbled floor.
Brock shot him a look that should have sent the man stumbling back and out the door. Instead, the whelp squared his shoulders and stood taller. Brock snatched Lady Maudsley’s arm and pulled her none too gently into Kimpton’s drawing room, slamming the door behind them.
She flinched.
“I said I shall see you home.”
“No!” Her voice raised half an octave. Her chest rose with the deep breath she took. The sight drew his attention and refused to let go. His fingers tingled with long-held desire. He forced his gaze to hers. Then it narrowed, taking in the soaked, dowdy brown woolen cape, the unflattering sturdy shoes, and the sodden hair. “Surely you do not expect to return in this downpour alone?” She could have hit him with a sledgehammer, and he wouldn’t have been more surprised. Suspicion roared through him. She and Lady Kimpton had been up to mischief. Just what mischief, he could only imagine.
“I-I shall just send for my carriage…” she stuttered.
Again, desire flooded him. She really was the most engaging woman, even with her rich, dark hair flattened against her head in a most unflattering coiffure and her shapeless apparel.
Unfortunately, she was married. To an oaf whose depravities were well-known throughout theton. By the male sector, in any event. “Don’t be ridiculous—”
She cut him off, throwing up her palm. “Lord Brockway, please. I must change my attire—” She glanced at the closed door, brows furrowed. “I-I must get to the Martindales’ masquerade.”
Ah, Lord Maudsley, the swine. “Pray, change your attire, then, my lady. I am more than willing to wait. Once I escort you to the Martindales’,Ishall then send for your carriage. Do not fret. I will appear long after you’ve made your grand entrance.”
“But—”
Lud, she was as stubborn as he could ever recall. “No arguments, madam.” He stood firm. “You will not be leaving here without an escort.”
“Lorelei—”
“Ginny—” She stiffened at his soft address, and he redirected himself. “Lady Maudsley, please. Lady Kimpton is in excellent hands. Her own husband’s, mind.” His chest constricted at the worry creasing her forehead. “It’s settled, then?”
Her head dipped in a crisp nod, and the constriction banding his chest loosened.
Brock went to the door. “Oswald.” The man’s efficiency was insurmountable. Brock handed him the rolled painting. “See this to Lord Kimpton’s study, if you please. Oh, and send a maid to assist Lady Maudsley.”
Minutes later, a head in a white mobcap appeared around the door. Brock clasped his hands at his lower back, gazing at the delectable Lady Maudsley. He turned a benign smile on her. “Take your time, my lady. I am in no hurry.”
With an exasperated huff, she flounced out, leaving him in a most frustrated state.
Six
T
horne clasped Lorelei’s hand. How small, how delicate it seemed. He rested a finger on her wrist and felt for the small throb of her pulse. Her skin, in the glow of the blazing fire from the hearth, was translucent, her flaxen hair plastered to her head.
Fear gripped him. She’d taken a chill and was trembling in a mass of shivers, her skin hot against the back of his hand. The wet cloak and dress he’d stripped her of lay in a heap before the fire. Her no-nonsense lady’s maid barreled in with a basin of cool water.
