She was through giving herself to Thorne. And while the law might not share her decision to withhold herself from her lawful husband, she knew deep down that Thorne would never force his himself on her. Installing a lock on the connecting doors was a statement. One that would strike her husband in the heart or, perhaps more appropriately, below the belt—
“My lady?” Bethie’s gray head peered around the door, startling her.
Startled, Lorelei’s tea sloshed over the rim. “Come in, Bethie. Though I feel inclined to mention it is not yet a half hour.”
Thorne lifted his head from the pillow, grunted at the pain, and dropped again, facedown. He vaguely recalled one arm from the club’s attendant and another from Brock, assisting him to bed. He was pretty sure it was not the favored one at home. That elicited a resounding groan. Lorelei was bound to think the worst now. God, what a fool he was. A temperamental, prideful fool. Still, Lorelei had never voiced her undying devotion either.Just opened her body to you whenever you pleased.Well, wasn’t it her duty as his wife? And not once in the past ten years hadsheinitiated their intimacy. Therein lay the crux. Did she lie with him for duty only or something more?
Rising slowly, he gathered his bearings and rang for coffee. He fumbled for his pocket watch on the bedside table. Damnation, it was already past noon. At this rate he would not be home before three. He scrubbed a palm over the scruff of his beard.
Someone knocked. “Sir?”
“Do you have to pound the bloody door?”
“Apologies, sir.”
Thorne waved his hand about. “Coffee, strong. And arrange a bath.”
“Very good, sir.”
Three hours later, Thorne pulled his horse up to his London townhome, head still pounding to an annoying degree. He dropped to the ground, tossed the reins into the hands of a waiting groom, and stopped short. A gentleman, face obscured by his hat, satchel in hand, climbed into a waiting carriage. His cane tapped the ceiling, and the conveyance jerked forward. A whiplash of panic bolted through Thorne.
Thorne broke into a run and burst through the door, surely upsetting Oswald’s normal efficiency. “Lorelei!” His voice rang through the house.
Oswald hurried into the foyer. “Sir?”
“Where is Lady Kimpton?”
“Out, sir.” Oswald’s calm tones grated against Thorne’s last nerve.
“Out?” He pulled up short.
“Yes, sir. Out.”
“Well, who the devil was that leaving? I thought he was a doctor.” Thorne set about gathering his wits and willed away the heat in his face.
“Mr. Chubb, sir.”
“Chubb. Chubb?” How odd. That band about his chest tightened.
“The locksmith, sir.” Oswald’s stoic demeanor gave nothing away.
“The locksmith?” Thorne closed his eyes, forcing himself to remain patient. “Tell me the servants’ entrance had need of a new lock, Oswald.”
“The servants’ entrance had need of a new lock, sir.”
He lifted a brow. “Indeed?”
“No, sir.”
The pounding in Thorne’s head refused to subside. He paced his study, stormed to the windows and looked out. The sight brought nothing new, and he resumed his pacing. Once Lorelei returned, he’d sit her down—no, he’d lay her down. Yes, once Lorelei was home, he’d lay her down. Smother her neck, her jaw, her mouth with kisses, until thoughts regarding any other women were obliterated from her head. His wife was not immune to his kisses. On about the fifth or eighth pass—he’d lost count—he groaned. Rowena’s note. Right where he’d dropped it the night before. He snatched it up, and Rowena’s heavy perfume permeated his nostrils. He darted back to the window and threw it open, then forced himself to do a quick read-through.
What the hell was so important that he had to meet her at dusk? And at her home? Such action was marital suicide, that’s what it was. Good God, if Lorelei got wind of this, he’d be done for, for sure. Disgusted, he stalked to the hearth and tossed the expensive vellum into the fire.
He glanced up at the old English lantern clock. The ornate face with etched Roman numerals showed a quarter past four. If he wasn’t mistaken, Lorelei had accepted the invitation to the Peachornsbys’ bash. And his most proper wifeneverreneged on an accepted invitation. He settled back on the settee and closed his eyes. Anything to stifle the pounding and his temper.
Later, the creak of the front door opening, then closing, stirred Thorne from a heavy slumber. He blinked slowly, trying to gather his bearings. A shaft of the early evening sun breached the drapes, reminding him he hadn’t seen Lorelei since the night before. Clopping horses pulled away and Thorne dived for the windows. He jerked the drapes apart to see the tail of the Kimpton carriage entering traffic… as dusk fell.
Dusk.
