Had his wife confided his and Lorelei’s paid arrangement? He shucked that thought as quickly as it rose. It didn’t seem likely. Of course, one never knew. “I don’t know what it can be, but I can surely guess.”
Heat crept up Thorne’s neck. He placed a palm against Lorelei’s cheek, Rowena’s predicament flooding his brain. His wife’s face remained overly warm, and though she’d slipped into slumber, he could see it was not restful. Guilt pricked his conscience. Slipping the laudanum in her tea against her direct wishes was less than honorable, yet how else was he to be assured of her getting proper rest? Of course, he could not have managed nearly so successfully without the cooperation of her guard dog of a maid.
“I would have more cool water in the basin, Bethie. Afterwards, perhaps you should rest. I shall stay with her ladyship tonight.”
Bethie hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but her hesitation was brief. Instead, she nodded sharply. “Very good, milord,” she said, and slipped from the room.
The door closed quietly behind her, and Thorne’s attention was snagged by the painting over the hearth. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. The subject matter was a ferocious depiction of Brutus at his worst. Why on earth would Lorelei keep such a sordid work in her bedchamber? It was a conundrum. He grimaced. As was Harlowe’s disappearance.
Bethie’s ramrod countenance, coupled with her stocky stature, doused him with a sudden sense of relief. He could take comfort knowing that Bethie would guard Lorelei with her life—at least until Thorne located Harlowe’s whereabouts and discovered exactly what the devil was going on.
Lorelei woke the next morning, her mouth dry as cotton and her legs confined by—what the devil was Thorne up to? He lay atop the coverings, one leg pinning hers, his breath hot against her neck. The instinct to roll over and curl up next to him swirled through her like warm butter. She reached toward his scruffy jaw—memories crashed through. His conversation with Miss Hollerfield, pounding into her mushy brain:When is the child expected? Two months.
She jerked her hand away. Humiliation shuddered through her. Her throat ached with defeat. Thorne stirred next to her. Her eyes flew open, meeting his ghost-gray ones, clouded with desire, longing, need… She had no wish to contemplate their depths. She struggled to move. His body tensed over hers, trapping her.
Before she could capture her breath, his mouth descended on hers in a gentle assault, strategically designed to disarm. A tantalizing brush of firm lips against hers, a tease of his tongue at the edge of her mouth. Oh God, she’d missed him. His strength, the protection of his arms, the weight of his body reassuring her. Wouldn’t any woman revel in the feel of his heat? His lov— She gasped and shoved him away. Startled hurt blazed into a white-hot anger, completing her humiliation.
He drew back, his gaze appearing almost confused. Pained even. And she’d almost fallen for it.
Slowly Thorne rolled onto his back and lay his head on a folded arm, watching her with a hooded gaze.
Lorelei kicked at his legs until he moved them then scrambled from the bed. Her vision swam before her, forcing her to grasp the post at the foot, having risen too quickly. As her head cleared and the pummeled hammering in her ears subsided, daylight poured through the sheer linings covering the windows. The rain from the night before had washed away every dark cloud, leaving a sun-drenched sky.
Rain. Ginny.She froze.
“What is it?” His tone was lazy, but experience told her he missed nothing.
“Ginny. Lady Maudsley.”
“Brockway saw her to the Martindales’ masquerade.”
Panic squeezed the air from her chest. “What! Does he know how dangerous that is for her?”
His lips tightened, but he spoke calmly. “They traveled via our carriage. With the heavy rain, I daresay no one paid any mind.”
She could only pray that was true. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Ginny would be fine. Lord Brockway was a gentleman, and he surely understood Ginny’s situation. Her mind shifted to her current dilemma. “What are you doing in here?”
He ignored her question. “You should be in bed. You took a chill last night, you know.”
As the night’s events unfolded in her mind, so did her outrage. “And you plied me with laudanum.”
The chagrin in his expression was surely feigned. “How else were you to rest?”
“You as good as lied to me.Again,” she bit out.
He sighed and sat up.
“You… you… slept in my bed.”
“I was looking after you! You were ill.”
“Keeping me prisoner, more like,” she muttered.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Do you think I shall stand by knowing you fathered a child in every corner of England and still expect to bed me?”
He stilled. “Pardon?”
