T
he lights in the Georgian Theater dazzled the senses. Aunt Isobel had enlisted the Duke of Oxford to accompany Aunt Isobel, Lady Maudsley (whose husband declined the invitation) and Lorelei to Covent Garden. Lorelei sincerely hoped the show would let out in time to enjoy the fireworks she’d heard were legendary. Her only regret was that Brandon had been unable to attend as well. Her concern for him was growing. Aunt Isobel’s caustic remarks and unwarranted maltreatment had her gregarious, fun-loving brother withdrawing into a resentful, sullen stranger. Before the ride through the park that afternoon, she’d hardly heard a peep from him since coming to London.
“It was nice of the duchess to include me tonight,” Lady Maudsley said from Lorelei’s left. “I’m afraid I don’t get to the theater as often as I’d like.”
“I’m thrilled she invited you.” Lorelei frowned. “But why don’t you attend the theater much? If I were in your position, I vow, I would be there every night of the week.” She poked out her bottom lip. “Being married offers you considerably more freedom than someone in my position.”
Lady Maudsley’s expression shuttered, putting Lorelei at a sudden loss.
“Did I say something wrong?” Lorelei touched her arm, and Lady Maudsley flinched. Lorelei snatched her hand back. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so forward.”
“No. No. Forgive me, you weren’t,” she whispered. “I’m just not used to… to anyone touching me.”
Lorelei leaned in and lowered her voice. “Did I hurt you, Lady Maudsley?”
“It-it’s nothing. You must call me Ginny. It’s short for Virginia.” Lady Maudsley seemed to shake off her angst. “Fainting like that last night was a brilliant notion. However did you think of it? It was all anyone could speak of when Kimpton carried you up those stairs. It was so romantic.” A wistfulness emanated from her that struck a chord in Lorelei.
But as Aunt Isobel had pointed out, Lorelei needed to dispel her idyllic notions. They were much too impractical. She didn’t know Lady Maudsley at all, but everything in her body language bespoke truth to that of a noble woman’s desires, and their lack of importance to one’s husband. Lorelei gave an indignant sniff. “It wasn’t a ruse. I say!” She leaned forward. “Is that how you landed Lord Maudsley?”
The expression on Lady Maudsley’s face could only be described as horror, then shifted to panic, then to fear. After glancing about, Ginny leaned in and said almost too low to hear, “I’m with child.” Her fingers covered her mouth as if she couldn’t believe she’d confessed something so intimate.
Lorelei didn’t have time to react, congratulate, or even ruminate on Ginny’s disclosure. But based on how quietly she spoke, Lorelei didn’t think she was keen on announcing the proclamation.
The floor shook and the duke’s large girth lowered into the chair on Lorelei’s right. “What do you think of our little theater, dear lady?”
“Quite lively, your grace. I’ve never seen the like.”
Lady Maudsley made a quiet retreat, or perhaps escape was the right word, to Aunt Isobel’s side at the back of the box.
“I think my daughter would adore your company,” the duke said. He spoke in a gusty way that vibrated the massive skin at his red-tinged jaws.
“How old is your daughter?” she asked for the sake of conversation.
“My little Felicity is seven.” His face lit up at mentioning her name. “She will be a beauty to rival your own someday,” he said. “You were quite the success at the Martindales’ crush. I expect you’ll be inundated with proposals.”
Her thoughts shifted to the man who’d brought out Brandon’s laughter that afternoon. One could not deny the Earl of Kimpton’s enticement. His shoulders were wide enough to take on the world. His very presence spoke of keeping the beasts like Shufflebottom at bay. But would he balk at restoring Spixworth to its former glory? Did he have children? Oh, dear. She was spinning him into hero material.
Lorelei’s heart thudded with panic. Aunt Isobel would certainly not hesitate to pressure her into marrying a duke. This had to be handled with extreme care. “Do you, er, think so, your grace? This is my first season, and the Martindale’s ball was my first ever. I hope I shall be allowed to enjoy at least a few weeks without the pressure of being expected to accept the first proposal offered.”
The duke blustered. “Yes, yes. You certainly should enjoy yourself. A first season is a once in a lifetime opportunity, my dear.”
Lorelei softened toward him. He sounded fatherly rather than ardent, and she greatly appreciated his words. “Thank you, your grace. I shall endeavor to enjoy my first season to its fullest.” It would not do for Aunt Isobel to get wind of this exchange.
DON JOHN: I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself.
DON PEDRO: O day untowardly turned!
CLAUDIO: O mischief strangely thwarting!
From the shadows within the curtained box, Thorne stood, watching Lorelei’s hand clasp the locket about her neck, her face aglow with excitement. God, she was so lovely. He didn’t even mind the all-white muslin she was required to wear due to her debutante status. When she was his wife—he swallowed a groan. When had he decided that? Well, it didn’t matter now. He’d decided. She was whom he’d marry. And he would insist she wear anything but white—which, of course brought to mind her splayed out completely naked in his bed.
God, he’d lost his blasted mind. Still, those images of his cock buried deep within the snug sheath of her body would keep him awake half the night.
Lady Maudsley sat next to her in her standard abnormally long gloves that hid all but a sliver of her upper arms.
DON JOHN: O plague right well prevented! So will you say when
you have seen the sequel.
The lights came up for the interval. There was no describing the rapture in Lorelei’s face. It was the sort of look a man could not resist. The sort of look that drove a man mad to get said woman in his bed. A damned debutante. He tapped and entered the box, beating the onslaught that was surely stalking a path to the duchess’s box that moment.
Protocol demanded Thorne first address the dowager. He bowed as the weight of Lorelei’s stare speared him, but he didn’t turn from the dowager. There was an unspoken rule in the beau monde: Never, never leave your back to the Dowager Duchess of Lewkes. “Your grace. I’ve come to pay my respects.”
“Kimpton.” A smile played about her mouth as if she knew he’d stood outside the box, awaiting his moment to pounce.
Shufflebottom entered then, sporting three glasses of lemonade.
Thorne barely restrained rolling his eyes and kicking himself for not thinking the same. Someday he would pay for his singlemindedness. He could only pray the price was not too high.
“Your grace, I come bearing refreshments,” Shufflebottom said, bowing.
Thorne backed away and strolled over to Lorelei and Lady Maudsley. “How are you finding the play, my ladies?” The question was rhetorical.
Lady Maudsley didn’t answer.
Lorelei lowered her eyes, then raised them to him. “I suspect you already know, my lord.”
A riot of unheralded emotion knocked his equilibrium askew. The depths of her dark blue eyes was akin to drowning in the churning waves of the Atlantic. He couldn’t breathe. He took her hand and kissed her gloved knuckles. “Yes, you are right. You wear your emotions unbidden. It’s an invigorating change.”
“Ah, my lack of sophistication shows itself, I see.”
“That’s not what I meant, and I suspect you know that.” He spoke more sharply than he’d intended, but with Shufflebottom hovering like a jaguar on the prowl he felt a little desperate. “Lorelei—”
Her startled gaze met his and her fingers trembled in his. “Apologies, Lady Lorelei.” He pushed a hand through his hair, cast a quick glance to Shufflebottom who was, so far, waylaid by Oxford. “I must leave, but please, I beg of you, do not do anything rash.” He released her hand, gave a quick a bow, and made his even hastier exit.
Outside the duchess’s box, the suitors were lining up: Greenmont, Hereford, Winchester, had all been in attendance at the Martindales’ ball the night before, plus a few others who weren’t. Norfolk, Dorset, the list went on.
Thorne inclined his head with a sharp smile. “Gentlemen.” He didn’t hang about. He had a very important errand that must be resolved sooner rather than later.
The wide carpeted staircase was jammed with theatergoers. Thorne wove his way through the throng with his eye on the door. He almost made it.
“Kimpton.” The low husky voice came from his right. Two steps from his goal.
He stopped and slowly turned. She was dressed to perfection in emerald green, her expression impenetrable, but for her eyes, which spoke volumes. The rage exuding from her did not bode well. “Rowena. I didn’t realize you were here tonight.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t. I was under the misconception I would see you last night.”
“Yes, well, about that—”
“Do not toy with me, Lord Kimpton; it doesn’t become you.” Her anger shifted to resignation. “The honorable thing to do is to end our association as you well know.”
Thorne winced. “I shall call on you tomorrow, Rowena. Truly, that was my intention.”
She touched his hand. “Don’t bother, my lord. We both know it was to end at some point. Now is as good a time as any.”
The breath went out of him. She was right. He wanted nothing to ruin his opportunity with Lorelei. Consciously or unconsciously, he’d made his decision. His purpose for calling on Rowena the next day was to give her his parting gift, and that was just as easily accomplished by courier.