“I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but Lady Kimpton missed her step as she alighted from the carriage—”
Thorne rushed forward. “Is she hurt?”
“I don’t believe so, my lord. I caught—”
“Give her over, Andrews. I shall handle matters from here.” He hoisted Lorelei from Andrews and caught the faintest whiff of brandy that mingled with roses. He frowned. “I thought she attended Lady Dankworth’s tea.”
“Aye, sir. She did.”
Lorelei curled against his chest, her trust in him squeezing the air from his lungs. “Thorne?”
“Inform Lord Brockway of my unexpected delay.”
“Consider him informed,” Brock said, lips twitching.
Shaking his head, Thorne carried his inebriated wife up the stairs. “I’ve half a mind to forbid you from future teas, madam,” he said softly as he made his way down the hall to her chambers.
She rubbed her head against his chest much like an affectionate kitten. A kitten whose claws at present were retracted, because even the tiniest claws drew blood.
“They said Brandon’s valet had been murdered,” she whispered. “Murdered. Is it true?”
He grimaced. As much as he hated lying, he hating having to admit the truth just as much. Lorelei should never have to hear talk of something as ghastly as murder. He kicked the door open to her chamber, startling Bethie. “It’s true.” Lorelei’s body shook with silent sobs.
“My lady,” Bethie gasped.
“She’s fine, Bethie. Let us be. I shall ring for you in a bit.” He glanced down at the package in his arms. “You might prepare the saline wash, however, for the aching head your ladyship is bound to wake with.”
The door closed silently, and Thorne laid Lorelei on the bed. He leaned her head on his chest and worked the fastenings down the back of her gown with deft fingers. His fingers grazed the base of her spine just below her corset. Warm skin was no match for her delicate chemise. His pulse threatened to leap through his skin.
The ties from her corset tickled his wrist, and he tugged them free. As they loosened, she moaned, an ecstatic whimper that sent the blood surging straight to his cock. In reality, it was most likely relief from her bindings and not undying lust, to his utmost regret.
Lorelei’s arms hung at her sides, her hot breath heating his shoulder. He drew the brightly colored frock down her arms and brought her to her feet, letting it slide over her slim hips and down her legs. A heap of brilliant yellow silk that pooled at his feet.
Thorne swallowed. Honestly, what had he been thinking? He should have let Bethie take care of Lorelei. Ha, why bother lying to himself? The opportunity to savor her was too great. Reveling in her rose-scented skin, feeling the softness of her skin, taking in the sweet heated breath though his shirt, running his hands over her satiny arms—the honor was truly his.
Her vulnerability reached deep inside. He would do anything within his power to shelter her from hurt—aching head notwithstanding. Even if it meant dragging that brother of hers from the dregs of hell, he’d manage that as well, he vowed.
“I do hope you enjoyed your tea, darling.” He chuckled softly. Her arms crept around his neck, and his breath stopped. “You do realize you are potted, my love?”
“Mmm?”
“Intoxicated, dear. Muddled.”
She looked up at him, her gaze unfocused. The effect rendered him frozen. She blinked, breaking her mesmeric hold over him. He unhooked her arms from his neck, and he went down to his knees, setting her hands on his shoulders. “Steady now,” he said, slipping off her one shoe, then the other.
Creamy thighs hit him at eye level, and he swallowed past a hard lump, rethinking his current position. He’d best leave the silk stockings. He rose quickly. “A small respite for you, my lady.”
Her arms snaked back around his neck and tightened, her nose buried in the crook of his shoulder. He stood fully, pulling her up with him, though resisting her body completely was not something he could manage at the moment. He held her steady. She was soused after all.
“D-don’t leave me, Thorne. I-I was so frightened. I-I thought you… were d-dead.” The words were a heated, stuttered mumble against his neck and threatened to drop him back to his knees, where restraining himself would prove impossible. With a groan, he pulled her weightlessness tightly into him. Wisps of flaxen hair had worked free, brushing his cheeks, their whispered touch teasing him without a shred of mercy.
“I told you, I shan’t die for a long while.”
“Please, I-I don’t want to be alone.”
A candidate for sainthood?“Of course I’ll stay, darling, just for a bit.” He’d qualify later. Surely the Almighty was keeping count. With one arm, Thorne tugged the covers back and laid her down. She grasped his wrists.
Her reluctance to let go drew his smile. “No—”
