Lady Dankworth.
The names went on until Lorelei’s head ached. Her posture was perfect, by the heavens, her smile slight and anchored in place. How could it be otherwise when the life was squeezed out of her by the torturous device of a well-tightened corset?
The lights in the ballroom took on an odd flickering as she tried to draw in a breath. So many candles, so much heat, so… little… air…
Three
I
’ve heard enough, Mother.” Thorne Gray, the Earl of Kimpton, pulled out his watch fob. The Martindales’ ball was a crush and his very excellent mistress Rowen Hollerfield was awaiting him at this moment. His mother was on a mission to marry him off, determined he start filling his nursery. Personally, he had no desire for children, one way or another. Who would wish to continue the line of debauchery and abuse his late father had wreaked on the title?
The dowager countess gave one of her disdainful sniffs. “Obviously, you haven’t.” She speared him with one of her piercing looks. “Don’t think you shall get away with sneaking off early this evening. You made me a promise, young man, and I intend to hold you to it.”
Something Kimpton assured himself he wouldn’t be daft enough to do again. He spotted his good friend, the Marquis of Brockway, on the dance floor, taking a turn with none other than Lady Maudsley. The woman, almost gangly in stature, tended to laugh—bray—at the most inappropriate times. A sound that had the ability to send those of weaker constitution running for their lives. Brock’s fascination with the woman was not only a conundrum but was also dangerous for the lady. “God, it’s hot in here.”
“Quit your grousing, son. It will not get you a reprieve.”
Kimpton could feel the perspiration gathering at his forehead and upper lip. He might be stuck at this ball, but he did not feel obligated to stand next to his mother the entire time. If memory served, Martindale usually had a card game or two in the works. “Perhaps not, Mother, but I see the music is coming to a halt—”
She grabbed his arm, ignoring him, and turned to their hostess as she approached with a debutante he failed to recognize. “Ah, Lady Martindale, who have you here?” his mother asked.
Kimpton swallowed a groan. Granted this one wore a touch of pink beneath the white issue of what he considered the debutantes’ standard uniform. He’d had no idea there were so many shades of white until he glanced across the ballroom and saw all the young misses gathered in one area. This girl, however, looked like a confection of spun sugar. Light, airy, and eyes—rolling back in her head—
Kimpton barely managed to shake off his mother and get his arm out in time to keep the girl from hitting the floor. “She needs air. Give way,” he growled at his mother. “Lady Martindale?”
“Oh dear, oh, dear.” Lady Martindale’s hands fluttered about like the wings of a buzzing hummingbird. “Yes, yes. Follow me, Lord Kimpton.”
Thorne felt the weight of every stare in the ballroom. Beneath hooded eyes, he studied the girl’s pale countenance. The locket at the end of a delicate gold chain, framed by the expanse of a creamy bosom. It was a sight that had his lower body reacting viscerally and him thankful for her voluminous skirts as he followed his host from the ballroom and up the stairs to a low lit library. She smelled of fresh rich roses.
She was clever, this one. He’d seen this sort of playacting before, but not to this degree. Her waiflike face was stark, even in the low lighting of the Martindale’s library. “Who is she?” he asked softly. “I haven’t seen her before.”
The dowager duchess of Lewkes appeared in front of him like a dark avenging angel, something he wagered no one would ever have the nerve to appoint her. Though she was stooped and her bewigged head in the current style, her hawklike nose lifted proudly. “Handle her with care, Kimpton. That’s my grandniece.”
Of all the luck.
Thorne laid her gently upon a long settee then moved near the doorway to watch, his curiosity snagging the better of him.
The girl’s eyes fluttered. “Aunt Isobel?” Her voice was pure music. The tinkling of a flute, softened by the notes of a cello. He narrowed his eyes on her. Her flaxen hair appeared to survive her ordeal.
Thorne retreated to a corner, hiding behind a large potted palm near the door to observe. He wished to discern how great a performer this beauty was, even while his randy cock stood at attention.
“Lorelei, don’t tell me you had the gall to faint.” The dowager appeared savvy to the girl’s tricks and offered no condolences.
“Is that what happened?” She sounded breathless. “It’s this blasted corset, Aunt. What a ridiculous device.”
“Bah. If your mother weren’t dead, I vow I would—”
Her head snapped up, her eyes flashed, but she gripped the back of the settee with one hand seeming to steady herself. “That’s enough, Aunt Isobel.”
Thorne found himself filled with admiration. Anyone who was brave enough to stand up to the dowager deserved it. The older woman was a force in polite society—a contradiction in terms if ever there was one. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Lady Lorelei. She was like no debutante he’d ever been introduced to. Anyone this beautiful and forthright enough to take on the duchess would be snapped up quickly on the marriage mart.
Where had that thought come from?
She twisted, dropping her feet to the floor. “You know, when I was a child, all I’d ever dreamed was to dress elegantly and go to a ball, rather like Cinderella,” she spoke softly. He was almost sure she didn’t realize he was still nearby.
“Put those ideals out of your head right this minute, gel. They’ll bring you nothing but disappointment.” The harshness of her words were softened by the dowager lowering beside her and taking her hand.
Thorne knew he should look away, but he found himself unable to.
