An image in her mind took shape, dustcovers over furniture, a young boy’s voice.They’re sayin’ the pa of Miss Hollerfield’s babe was found dead.
Her gaze snapped to his. “You’re not dead.”
Lorelei’s pale features struck Thorne like a dull blade to the heart. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and slid to the floor. Terrified, he leapt from the bed and crouched beside her. Fathomless blue eyes trapped his gaze.
“They said you were dead. Who is dead? Someone is dead?” With each question, her voice rose, every shred of her control appearing to dissipate.
He wrapped an arm under her shoulders, looped the other beneath her knees, and scooped her up. “Of course I’m not dead. I shan’t die for a very long time.”
A shudder racked her slight form.
“Ah, I see that distresses you.” He said it lightly, teasingly. “Rest assured, my love, I shall die sometime.” He placed her gently on the bed and tipped her chin up with his finger. “You are not yet recovered, I think.” He moved to the bellpull and tugged.
After a sharp knock on the door, Bethie’s head appeared through a crack.
“Fresh tea for Lady Kimpton,” he said. She pierced a sharp glance in Lorelei’s direction, nodded, then withdrew.
Thorne ran a hand over his unshaven jaw and looked down at his wrinkled clothes. The first order of business was a clear head. He walked over to the door adjoining his chamber and turned the knob. Nothing. He peered over his shoulder. She reclined against the pillows, arms folded beneath her breasts, lips compressed. The sight had hunger of a different kind gnawing at him. He wanted her, badly. Unfortunately, everything about her demeanor rejected him. “Lorelei,” he growled. “Where’s the key?”
And there was still the business of finding Harlowe. He couldn’t possibly tell her that her brother’s valet had been murdered. Then would come the explanations that he had no idea where her brother was and that Harlowe had fathered a courtesan’s unborn child.
“Who’s dead?” she demanded.
Then again, perhaps he should. He stopped and faced her fully as the realization of her previous words struck. “Who told youIwas dead?”
Though she hadn’t moved, the room took on a stillness that rivaled a slab of granite. Had she somehow caught word of Marcus’s death? Where the devil would she have heard such a thing? And from whom? Nothing in her features gave him any indication of her thoughts.
Nothing made sense. He didn’t know how long they held that standoff, each considering the other, no sound but the pounding of his heart, until it was finally broken by Bethie’s appearance with the tea.
Irritated, Thorne stormed into his chamber by the untraditional route—through the hallway.
Lorelei sipped her tea and watched Bethie absently, contemplating Ginny’s and her venture the evening before. Someone was dead. That’s what the boy had said. She didn’t think she’d imagined the entire thing. Butwhowas dead? And why should it matter to Miss Hollerfield’s servants? She could still feel the weight of Thorne’s leg over hers. Thorne was definitely not dead.
“Well. ’Tis good to see you and Lord Kimpton have patched up yer spats.”
Startled, Lorelei blinked. Bethie disappeared into the sitting room. “Patched up our spats? Yousawhim walk intoherhouse.Youcalled him acur.” Blast, she had almost succumbed to his sweet, teasing kisses. Anger lodged through her. Was she so weak she’d let him play with her affections so loosely?
Two weeks.In two weeks, she would be free to find Brandon without monetary restraint. And why should that thought distress her? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?Of course it is. She would never be able to sustain resisting him if he let loose that legendary charm on her. Her husband was much too sure of himself.
First things first, however. Lady Dankworth’s tea. She’d accepted the invitation weeks ago. If there was one place to unearth information, it was at Lady Dankworth’s. A small smile filled her for the first time in what seemed forever. “Bethie, please send for hot water. I’d like to dress.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” she said firmly. “Just do as I ask.” She rose and scribbled a quick note to Ginny telling her they’d meet at Lady Dankworth’s. Perhaps between the two of them they could think of a way to locate the absent Miss Hollerfield. And, if she was lucky, who she might contact regarding Brandon’s whereabouts.
Eight
T
horne looped his cravat in a careless knot. In the mirror, he caught Dante’s wince and chuckled. “It shall have to suffice, my man. I’ve no time to spare this morning.”
“But, my lord,” Dante gasped, splaying his hand against his heart. “My reputation.”
“I’m off to meet with Brockway, if my lovely wife should happen to inquire.” Which was most unlikely. Breaking through her stiff resolve was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated. That slight shift of surrender he’d felt from her soft lips had turned to hardened resolve. She was nothing if not stubborn.
Thankfully, she was not quite up to her usual self. He’d love nothing more than spending the day abed, plying her body with techniques he knew would sway her to his will. Ah, well. Not an option. The search for Harlowe was becoming dire.
The man’s disappearance bedeviled Thorne. The notion that he might have pegged his wife’s scoundrel of a brother wrong all this time was troubling. Coupled with Marcus’s death—well, something was definitely afoot. And whatever Harlowe’s faults, Thorne certainly didn’t believe the man capable of murder.
