The pounding grew more demanding. “Open up, Lorelei. I know you’re home. I spoke to the coachman.”
“Lord Kimpton?” She jerked the door open. Sure enough he stood under her portico, rain sluicing down his face and neck. “What are you doing here?”
“Stop right where you are, my lord.” Brandon was poised at the top of the stairs, Papa’s pistol trained on Lord Kimpton’s chest.
A long tense-filled minute filled the hall. Then he said, “Is there a place to stable my horse?”
“Certainly, on the other side of the house.” She turned to Brandon. “Put that away. Go with Lord Kimpton while I make tea.”
Thorne took the reins of his mount and followed Harlowe through the deluge to a dilapidated structure. “Whose idea was it?”
Harlowe’s mouth tightened, but Thorne had lost patience at Newmarket. He was tired, he was hungry, he was soaked to the bone. And seeing Lorelei in black bombazine infuriated him. She was meant for brilliant shades of crimson, emerald, cerulean. Harlowe didn’t answer and Thorne grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “I asked you a question, son.”
Harlowe fought him off to no avail. “I’m not your son,”
“I’ve been worried sick for two days. Whose idea was this, dammit?”
“Mine.”
Thorne released his hold. “Do you realize what could have happened?” His rage bounded against the old wood.
“I did what I had to do. I heard Aunt Isobel tell Lore that she was going to allow that dandy to marry her.”
Thorne shoved a hand through his wet hair. “I’ll be damned.” He narrowed his eyes on the lanky whelp, assessing the validity of his words.
“I told Lore I was leaving, but she said we needed a plan.”
Thorne studied him quietly. His statement rang true. “I owe you an apology, Harlowe, but that was indeed a very good reason to leave. Shufflebottom is not the man for your sister.”
“And I suppose you are.” Sarcasm spewed from Harlowe.
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“She won’t have you. You wasted your time coming here.” Harlowe shoved open the stable door and the upper hinge splintered, twisting the door to an odd angle.
Thorne led his horse inside. “We’ll see about that,” he said to his horse.
Harlowe disappeared and Thorne used the task of unsaddling and grooming his mount to calm down and contemplate just how close he’d come to losing Lorelei. His hands shook at the realization.
He dashed to the house through the rain, ducking inside.
Lorelei was waiting by the door with a towel. “What happened out there? Brandon rushed in and stomped upstairs.”
“He’ll be fine.” Thorne took the towel and rubbed it over his face, neck, and hair. “Is it true? Was the duchess planning to force Shufflebottom on you?” He raked an irritated, critical gaze over her. “You look horrible in black,” he said.
“No one asked you.” She spun on a black kid leather half-boot and stormed in the opposite direction from the drawing room.
He took off after her in a narrow hall to a flight below stairs to the kitchens. “Slow down.”
She didn’t.
He took her arm, spinning her back around to face him. “I don’t ever want to see you in funeral black or debutant white again.”
“How dare you?” she sputtered.
His lips crashed over hers, hot and greedy, shutting off her words. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, and a tingling sensation sizzled his entire body, suffused with an indescribable heat. He could never, would never, get enough of her.
She froze. Then softened under the invasion, her arms entwining and locking behind his neck. He stroked her tongue with his over and over. His hands moved up and cupped her face. He leaned away. “I want you to marryme, Lorelei.”
