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.
“I’m sorry, Lorelei, but this is the way the game is played. The ton loves a diamond, and the ton loves to tear a diamond to shreds. You, my dear, are the diamond. And this little stunt just put you at the top of everyone’s awareness list. Well done.”
“Well done? Well done?”
Her outrage was as enchanting as the young lady herself.
The dowager’s gentleness disappeared with a snap of a fan. “I’ll have none of that from you, young lady. You needed help, and it’s help you’ve received. Do you understand?”
The girl snatched her hand back and, for a long tense-filled moment, Thorne feared the dowager would slap her face. To his relief, the old woman’s hand went to the girl’s cheek and patted her. “You’ll do fine. You are full of fire, and that shall serve you well. Men are rakes and rapscallions.”
“Then why do you wish to pawn me off on one?” She sounded hurt. Betrayed.
“Child, your parents left you penniless. No dowry. That is a major strike against you. Your brother is another.”
“My brother is a talented artist.”
“Bah! Art will get him nowhere. He is at a tender age and, in my experience, one most men would not wish to take on.”
To Thorne’s shock, the woman wrapped a bony arm around her charge.
“Might we return home now, Aunt?”
Her arm fell away and she stood up, cloaked in all her dowager duchess hauteur. “Indeed, we cannot. We are here to showcase you and you haven’t danced a single set. You’ve provided us the perfect opportunity to exploit and exploit it we will. Now, pull yourself together. If you are not in the ballroom in ten minutes, I vow, I shall marry you off to the first scoundrel who asks for your hand.” Her grand exit rivaled that of Princess Charlotte’s in a snit with Prinny.
Thorne edged to the door to avoid the onslaught of tears he expected, but that was as far as he managed.
The virginal maiden rose, an ethereal sight gliding to the windows, and looked out at the night sky. Her reflection in the glass was one of resignation, but to her credit, she rallied. Her spine straightened and she set her jaw. “Blast it. I wish I’d never come to London,” she said on a breathless huff.
Thorne stopped short of the door, charmed in spite of himself. “That would have been a shame.”
She spun around. “Who are you?”
“The man who kept you from hitting the floor in an indelicate splat.” He sauntered across the room. “Thorne Gray, Earl of Kimpton.” He bowed from the waist. “At your service.”
“You’ve been here the entire time?”
He detected the soft blush in the dim lighting. “I’m afraid so.”
“So you heard every word my aunt said?”
“Every word.”
Her shoulders lifted then fell. “Well, this is humiliating.”
He took a step closer and was rewarded with the scent of the hothouse roses he’d breathed in earlier. “You are lovely enough to survive it.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Are you a scoundrel?”
Unable to resist, he leaned in. “Indubitably,” he said. Then touched his lips to hers, catching her breath with his. She tasted as good as she smelled. He licked the seam of her lips, barely delving within. His pulse kicked up and he deepened his unexpected kiss. At once he was sucked within the force of a vortex, and the effort to pull away took every ounce of his remaining will. “Might I remind you what else she said?” he whispered against her lips.
“W-what?” The tremor in her voice riveted his insides.
“You’ve six minutes before the dowager promises you to the first scoundrel who comes calling.”
She jerked away from him and gripped the windowsill on either side of her slender hips. “Perhaps I’ll scream bloody murder and take my chances with you.”
“You might try, but sadly for you, I’m not hindered by petticoats and yards of skirts. Not to mention the number of Martindale routs I’ve attended. I know my way around. Escape is much easier for me than you.”
This close up, he could see the depths of fire in eyes so blue it was if summer had usurped winter in the blink of an instance. Her eyes narrowed on him a second time. “So it is.”
He strolled to the door. “I am happy, however, to precede you into the ballroom and offer myself as your first dance partner. Perhaps that will count for something.”
She rose to her full height, barely inches over five feet, and turned a brilliant smile on him that had his heart doing an unusual erratic skip. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “According to Aunt Isobel, I’m a diamond. While my aunt may have left off the “rough around the edges” part, I expect I shall have plenty of proposals after that irritating fainting spell. Particularly, and apparently, with my choice of scoundrels.” She turned up that blinding smile. “Your abetment on my behalf is duly noted, Lord Kimpton. Alas, I shall have to decline your offer of a mercy dance. It is neither needed nor wanted.” The vein at her neck beat a fast pulse, but she was a cool one, inclining her head and ducking around him. “Good night, my lord.”
Lorelei felt as if she’d escaped within an inch of her life. Her heart pounded sure as if she’d beat Brandon in a swim across the Spixworth pond. An exaggeration? Then why was she trembling from the inside out? Because she likely had less than two minutes to reach the ballroom. That man had heard everything: her destitute status and her brother’s dependence on her. Her jaw clenched until it ached. She would marry no one who wouldn’t accept Brandon along with her.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. You’re late.” Aunt Isobel’s shrewd eyes swept over her. “This is Lord Shufflebottom. My lord, may I present my grandniece? Lady Lorelei, elder sister of the young Viscount Harlowe.”
Lord Shufflebottom was dressed to the nines in a brilliant purple silk waistcoat that did nothing to offset his intricately tied cravat, so white, it dazzled. He was a little too perfect in her estimation. Perfection was difficult to live up to.
“How lovely to make your acquaintance, Lady Lorelei. Might I have this dance?”
One look at Aunt Isobel was enough to convince Lorelei that turning down Lord Shufflebottom would not go well for her. She laid her gloved hand atop his sleeve, allowing him to lead her to the crowded parquet. Dancing was not the strongest in her repertoire. Aunt Isobel had hired a dance instructor, but Papa’s teasing about her lack of coordination was never far from the forefront in her mind. In this instance, she had to just close her eyes and hope for the best.
“I trust you didn’t suffer any ill effects from your swoon earlier?”
Lorelei wrinkled her nose. “You saw that, did you?”
He grinned. “It was difficult to miss, as I daresay most anyone will be happy to inform you.”
There wasn’t much she could add to that. Her eyes flitted away and back to him. “I should like to apologize in advance.”
His brows raised.
“For my abysmal dancing,” she clarified.
“I believe I can survive the abuse,” he murmured.
But would she? Shufflebottom was a dandy, for sure, but an undercurrent of debasement she had no reason to assign him seemed to swirl about him like a low-lying fog. They took their place in line as the music cued up, effectively saving her from further conversation.
She made her curtsey, he made his bow.