The perfect ending to the perfect day, eh? There was nothing now but to follow through on this idiotic voyage he’d forged for himself. For if his wife found out about the babe ...
Lorelei hurried back to the stairway, blinking back unshed tears. She’d always believed her husband a Goliath. A man larger than life whose gray eyes could sear her with their passionate depths with a single glance. A stray dark lock of his too-long hair draping over one brow, his firm lips twisting in that sensual grin that more times than not had had her rushing her goodbyes at some silly soiree or musicale at the mere thought he might be home waiting for her. When that square jaw of his firmed out of some irritation that had seeped under his skin, his exasperation sometimes shifted quickly to ardor if he caught her grinning before she could manage to mask it. In an instant, his noble roots evaporating, ceasing as if he were some baseborn thief, he’d catch her up by the waist, tossing her over his shoulder, taking the stairs up two at a time, then stealing her heart. He’d slam the door to his bedchamber and make desperate love to her as if he couldn’t bear to wait another second to possess her body, not the least bit concerned what the servants thought. Her stomach dipped violently. Was all of that gone?
Thorne’s broad shoulders disappeared within the sanctity of his study, and she gripped the carved balustrade to steady her shaking fingers, uncertain how much time had passed. Yet long enough to witness Oswald tapping softly on the door then slipping inside. She should talk to him. Ask him…
She started down the stairs. In the two steps she’d taken, her husband stomped back into the foyer, jammed his hat on his head, and headed out the front door. It shut hard enough behind him to knock the vase with her favorite orchids over and send it crashing to the floor. The echoes rattled the chandelier, and sent candlelight flickering in a violent fury against the walls.
Oswald’s wiry frame reappeared. Lorelei stilled.
Somehow she resisted the urge to bend over at the pain searing through her abdomen. Silently, she willed the tears back, but they betrayed her. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Doing so would amount to acknowledging how deeply Thorne’s words cut. And one word in particular.She.
Lorelei must have dreamt the pain she thought she’d seen in the depths of his gray eyes. Too quickly, that practiced mask of composure he wore so well had slipped into place. Oh, how could she have failed to detect his attentions to another woman? No matter how late Thorne arrived home from his clubs, his meetings in Parliament, never had she even whiffed another’s perfume. Wherever he traipsed in from, night after night, he’d always ended up in her—their—bed.
Fury ripped through her gut at her own gullibility. She, who so stupidly believed her husband had grown to love her. Yet he’d never spoken the words aloud, had he? No, and it was now clear, love from him had been wishful thinking on her part.
She gulped back a sob, refusing to give way to his insufferable behavior. Her sweet, talented younger brother was gone. Into the world, where he could end up maimed or, worse, dead. Despite her efforts to remain calm, her anguished cry escaped. She dashed back the tears with an angry fist and scolded herself. He could only hurt her if she let him. Drawing in a shaky breath, she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and cloaked herself in the anger rushing through her blood.
She.The selfish bastard. She pounded her fist on the heavy wood of the balustrade. Pain shot up her arm, but she ignored it. It was nothing compared to the torment tearing through her heart. He’d promised her fidelity. It was the only thing she’d requested in their marriage contract.
Fury was much easier to bear. She’d kill him. All his lovely compliments—the depth of her blue eyes, the silkiness of her curling blonde tresses, the softness of her creamy skin. Oh, how he’d ached for her. Lies. All of it.
Oh, she’d stay, she fumed. She’d take the lout for his two thousand pounds, and then some. John Brown, Marquis Brockway, had always held her in his affections. Mayhap he’d hold her in other ways once she’d ended this farce of a marriage.
Sorrow hit her chest with the force of a thrown brick. She knew she could never follow through on such a threat. She’d had the unmitigated gall to have fallen in love with the blasted knave. She needed to think. To think, she need to remain calm. Tranquil. Stuff the hurt in a bag and toss it out with the refuse.Drawing air deep in her chest, she released it slowly, and let the quiet of the house steal over her.
Perhaps she had other powers. Thorne’s words began to sink through the fog of her mind. Why would he offer her money to stay? Certainly, it had something to do with the “she.” What else could it be?
Lorelei glanced over the railing to the front door. Indeed. Whywouldher husband offer her money? It was not as if he held undyinglovefor his devoted wife. She slipped back down the stairs. Feeling like a thief in the night, she darted a quick glance over her shoulder, then stole into his study.
A steady fire burned in the grate, as if waiting for his return. On tiptoes, she drifted to the massive mahogany desk. Her husband was an inherently organized man. Usually not a paper was out of place. But there, on the corner, was a crumpled note. Guilt swamped her, quickly dissipating.She.
God, she hated herself for her mistrust. But she would not be caught unaware again. Boldly, Lorelei lifted the missive, positive that lightening would bolt through the oversized windows and strike her straight in the heart. A sickly sweet fragrance wafted up, nauseating her.
My dearest Thorne,
That pressing matter we spoke of previously? I’m certain you remember. This is of an urgent matter. I look forward to a mutually beneficial resolution. Might I suggest my residence? Dusk tomorrow. Don’t be late.
Ever yours, R. Hollerfield
Lorelei dropped the missive as if it were a coiled snake, a red haze blurring her vision along with the settling of a deep chill within her. It could only be Rowena Hollerfield. The infamous courtesan was known for flaunting her conquests, and the better those coups, the greater her grandstand. Two thousand pounds wasnotenough.
She stormed from the room and stood in the empty foyer, unsure what to do, how to feel. The emotions roiled through her—she was stunned, furious, frightened.She.
“Oswald,” Lorelei bit out. Her most proper butler had no doubt heard hers and Thorne’s entire disgusting exchange, and he probably realized she’d been snooping as well. He appeared much too quickly to have been otherwise engaged. She should sack him.
The tall, lanky figure bowed. “Yes, my lady?” His kind, wrinkly face was impassive.
“Please contact Mr. Chubb. Have him call first thing in the morn.”
“The locksmith, my lady? Tonight?”
“Tonight.” The feral smile she turned on Oswald had him scurrying back posthaste. She had no doubt Oswald regretted his usual show of unflappability.
“Yes, my lady. First thing.” He stopped. “One thing, if I may, my lady.” He pulled a black pouch from his pocket. “Lord Kimpton asked that I personally make sure you received this.”
“What happened to you, Kimpton? Did your lovely wife finally come to her senses and toss you out?”
Thorne welcomed White’s dark interior and the heat the roaring fire put out. “Get me a towel,” he barked to the attendant. His scowl sent the man scampering. He turned to Brock. The marquis was in line for the dukedom, and not so far in the future, if rumors surrounding his father’s ill health were to be believed.
