Harlowe had outdone himself, having created an ethereal effect with the lighting above her head. Sunlight streamed in through an open window, turning her flaxen hair into shimmering ribbons of pale gold. Harlowe knew his sister well. Her teasing manner, which he’d caught with superb genius, showed a woman in love.Love. Did she love him?
Something to dwell on later. Thorne forced himself to look past her face and study the setting. The heavily brocaded bench on which she sat contained a cushion of deep green velvet. Her long slender fingers rested on the keyboard of a pianoforte of dark mahogany. His gaze drifted back to his wife. Her dress was of the softest cream. The only thing Thorne could see in the folds of her skirts were the many gathers. Not a scythe in sight. But, of course, there wouldn’t be a scythe, would there? This was one of Harlowe’s earliest works.
With concerted effort, Thorne moved next to Brock, who was staring at the other work. A crudely etched neighborhood scene met his gaze, angled from a corner looking down the middle of a cobblestoned street. The doors of each home were uniformly painted in a bright blue, the buildings in white. Dread filled Thorne as he considered the work. Each and every lamppost globe was attached to its post by way of the circular sword, modifying the idyllic scene to something haunting. Something menacing.
Oswald’s head appeared around the door. He spoke with his usual aplomb. “Lady Kimpton, sir—”
“I don’t wish to speak of Lady Kimpton presently, Oswald.” Having spent the whole day doing everything possible to avoid thinking of her, he damn sure didn’t want to speak of her right now. He had no desire to be the brunt of Brock’s amusement.
Oswald inclined his head. “A letter, sir.” He held out an envelope.
“Grab one end of the frame,” Brock said.
Thorne snatched the letter from his stoic butler and stuffed it in his waistcoat, then took the other end of the large frame. It took both him and Brock to haul the damned thing back to Thorne’s study. “Set it next to the other one.” They lowered it against the wall beside the one with the traitorous lover. Thorne stood back and compared the two. Nothing jumped out at him. “I think we need the painting from my wife’s bedchamber,” Thorne said. “But she is certain to be sleeping.”
“I doubt that, Lord Kimpton.” The formal address startled Thorne, and his gaze snapped to Brock. He stood at the far corner of the desk, holding out another missive.
“What is that?”
“It looks to be a note from Lady Maudsley to your wife.”
Impatience rippled through Thorne. “What of it? They send notes to one another frequently.”
“Yes, well, this particular note implies that Lady Maudsley regrets she is still too ill to accompany your wife—to… er… Kimpton.”
Thorne snatched the weighty paper from Brock’s hand and scanned Lady Maudsley’s uneven scrawl. “Good God.” He tossed it on the desk. “This is disastrous,” he muttered. “I have to stop her.”
Brock picked the note back up, grimacing. “Something is wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. He strode from the room. A second later the front door slammed, shaking the paintings that leaned against the wall.
He would contemplate Brock’s words later, he thought. Dashing from the room, Thorne took the stairs two at a time and stormed the hall toward Lorelei’s chamber. No light showed beneath the door, sending a skitter up his spine. It was too bloody early in the morning. He should have sent word to Lorelei last night. Told her she could have control of every last sterling to their name. He hesitated before the door, his hand on the knob, the doubts crowding in. Perhaps he should wait until a reasonable hour.
Damn it. He would just tell her the truth about Harlowe. Even if she didn’t believe him, the truth would eventually stand in his favor. That’s the step he should have taken from the beginning. His shoulders fell. No. She would be devastated to know her brother was missing, and he couldn’t bear seeing her hurt. Thorne reined in a flicker of apprehension and pushed open the door.
It was dark. Dark and cold. No coals flared in the grate, no candles flickered. A tingling sensation rippled up his over his skin, raising the hair on his nape. In four long strides, he stood at the windows, whipping the curtains apart. The dense atmosphere beyond did not help much in the way of light, but it was enough.
He looked to the bed. No Lorelei.The letter.
Thorne jerked the envelope from his pocket and tore it open.
My Lord—
I compose this note to alleviate any worry on your part, sir, and to let you know you are in no way you responsible for our interactions last evening. The fault is truly mine, much to my acute embarrassment. Please be advised, I have departed for Kimpton to wait out the remainder of our two-week agreement.
Regards, Lady Kimpton
Thorne dragged himself to his chamber, groaning. He dropped Lorelei’s note on a chair and rang for hot water, then peeled the clothes from his body and splashed cold water on his face. The ride to Kimpton would be a hard one, but it was early—bloody early—and despite his dreary body, he should be able to make excellent time.
Dante handed him a towel.
“I’m headed to Kimpton, but I’ll rest for just a moment. God knows what I’ll find when I get there.”
God, he missed her. Thorne fell back on the bed, eyes closed—only for a moment, he promised himself. In his deepest fantasies, the key would scrape the metal lock on the door adjoining his wife’s chamber. She would ease the door ajar, then stroll to his bed, wearing only the moonlight streaming through the open window. Rising, he would beckon her forward.
But being his Lorelei, she tossed her head in feigned resistance. The small, reserved smile that touched her plump lips only heightened his anticipation. She’d shake her head, and her eyes would be all mischievousness and full of play. Then, tease that she was, she would cup her breasts. Lift them in invitation. He’d prowl forward, but rather than accept her offering, he’d fall to his knees, bury his face in her abdomen. Part her legs—
Discomfort roared through him. He gripped his throbbing cock, stroked twice, perhaps three times, and the seed spilled in a torrent over his hand.
Torture.He had to quit torturing himself.
