She sniffed, sounding nothing like Rowena. “Spixworth Hall.” Her hurt was genuine, but a man had his pride. And he was a man. The man.
The words flew from him before he could stop himself. “I forbid it.” Wincing, he gentled his voice. “That puts you right through Norwich, darling. There’s too much unrest with the Reform—”
She tossed those flaxen curls. “All of that was over twenty years ago.”
“Spixworth Hall is uninhabitable.” Not to mention a veritable nightmare from London to reach. “It’s too isolated.”
When Thorne had met Lorelei, she was a prickly eighteen, raising her thirteen-year-old brother. After their parents’ death, there’d been no money for her to send Harlowe back to Eton.
It had only been by the sheerest luck that Thorne had met her. Their attraction had been instant, but at five and twenty he hadn’t been ready for marriage. She’d put her pert little nose in the air and said she had no intention of waiting on the whim of some man to provide for her future, earl or not.
Thorne wasn’t stupid. Once Lorelei was launched in London, he would lose her to some fop. He was no hero, but he the idea of another man claiming her favor could not be borne. So he’d taken the only possible action despite not having been ready—he’d made her his own.
And the natural course of sending her brother back to school was also to his advantage.
“You’re not even listening,” she said, and started back up the stairs.
Her words penetrated and yanked him back to the dire situation in which he now found himself.
Each step up Lorelei took, Thorne’s chest tightened, restricting his ability to breathe. He looked about for something, anything to seize her attention. But, of course, the entry way was immaculate. The tall Ming vase overfilled with Cymbidium orchids framed in a leafy presentation that stood on the hall table offered nothing viable. They were Lorelei’s pride and joy. The mirror was so shiny, the candles from the chandelier could blind one. Neither a streak nor speck of dust marred the floor. The only items remotely out of place were his cloak and hat slung over a nearby skinny highback chair.
Another soft scuff of her slippers and still she hadn’t looked back. Not a strand of her perfect blonde coiffure escaped its place. The myriad times he’d pushed impatient hands through her silken locks to send the hairpins flying stabbed through him. He couldn’t lose her. “Lorelei, stay.” His voice cracked, hoarse, sounding nothing like the confident man he’d grown into despite his father, who had tried at every turn to smash him.
She stilled. “You sent my brother away. He’s an artist, not a f-fighter. He could be killed.” The softness of her voice pierced him with the sharpness of a blade. She held her head high, one slipper-shod foot four steps from the top. She shook her head, hard enough that one of the pins slipped and let loose a rogue curl. “And now, another woman?” She broke off on a choked cry, darting up the remaining stairs.
Sent her brother away?“Darling, wait.”
“I shan’t forgive you for that. Ever.”
“Dammit, Lorelei. Don’t. Don’t run from me.” He took the stairs two at a time. Reached the top as she turned down the hall of the wing where their chambers nestled side by side. He should never have allowed her a separate room. At the end of hall, her hand twisted the knob on her door. “I’ll pay you,” he blurted. She stopped but didn’t turn. “One thousand pounds if... if you can manage a fortnight. Just until—”Until what?
The tightness in his gut registered as fear. Fear he’d never gain ground. But he had the advantage. Lorelei had nothing. She’d had no dowry. He didn’t need or want one. She’d be destitute without him. He’d saved her useless brother from debtor’s prison. But now, her brother had stooped to a new low. Abandoning not only his sister, but a child as well. So what if the mother was one of the most sought-after courtesans in London? Lorelei would never care about such a detail, though most of thebeau mondewould turn her away if they knew she felt that way.
Blast. The short, cruel thing would be to enlighten her. Take her by the shoulders and shake her until she heard the truth. Make her realize thathehadn’t put her brother on board a ship, show her that her precious Brandon was acting as an irresponsible cad, running from his responsibilities of a mistake—a mistake most men of their standing took pains to buy their way out of. Hell, the man was more a noose around one’s neck. Had been since Thorne and Lorelei’s wedding.
Lorelei’s body stiffened, and he swallowed the words. Thorne could never hurt her so callously. She turned, pierced him with flinty blue eyes. The world revolved to a stop, and perspiration gathered at the nape of his neck. He inhaled through his nose, letting out a slow stream through pursed lips.
“Per week,” she said. His wife’s tone, usually warm and full of husky mischief, radiated cold gray steel.
“What?”
“A thousand pounds. Per week. For two weeks I shall stay. And I want half now.” Her crystallized pitch would have made Medusa proud. Curiosity driving him, Thorne looked her in the eye, certain he would turn to stone, while bitter irony held him in a firm grip.
Two weeks. Could he find that no-good brother of hers in that amount of time? Force him to acknowledge his responsibility? Thorne had his doubts, but he would accept her offer. Give her half now, and pray it was enough to keep her from leaving before he located Harlowe.
But he had his pride as well. In a tone that matched her cold glare, he said, “Done.” He stepped back, enough out of reach to keep from grabbing her, with the scent of her hair annihilating what was left of any remaining sense, good or bad. He tipped his head, unable to stem the sarcasm. “Perhaps you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ve urgent business to attend.” He stalked down the stairs to his study and shut the door with a solid click. Someday he might learn to hold his tongue. Not speak until spoken to—a quality his father had tried beating into him until the day the old bastard dropped dead of an apoplexy when Thorne was but ten and three.
He tossed the note he still clenched on his desk, furious with his reaction—no,overreaction—and moved behind the desk. He peered up at his father’s portrait with disgust. The pompous ass. It showed in the set of his shoulders, his grim facade. He made a silent vow to remove it to the attic. Or perhaps make Harlowe paint over it as retribution.
Thorne reached up and ran his fingers along the gilded edge of the frame, just inside one corner, and pressed the minute mechanism. The large painting parted slightly from the wall without a sound. He slipped a key from his watch fob pocket and fit it into his pride and joy—one of the first burglar-resisting safes created by Charles Chubb. Granted, it was a test model, but it worked magnificently. Talk about an exquisite piece of art.
Thorne counted out several hundred guineas, locked the safe, and restored the painting to its rightful position.
Of all the asinine things he could have thought of to entice his charming and beautiful wife into remaining by his side,hehad to offer money. It was the panic, of course. Money she would likely use, inevitably leading him to the same fate she’d threatened.Losing her.
Well, he’d bought himself a fortnight to locate Harlowe and hopefully convince Lorelei to stay. He jerked out the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. He scribbled off a quick note and rang for Oswald.
Minutes later, snatching up his top hat, he jammed it on his head. There was some satisfaction in slamming the door behind him. Only fifty feet from the stables, the heavens parted, dumping a waterfall of ice-cold tears that soaked through every layer he wore.
