N
ever again.”
“What?” Brandon’s brows furrowed.
“I’m never stepping foot in another carriage as long as I live.”
“Ah, Lore. Quit your complaining. I’m the one who was stuck inside. I shoulda been on horseback like a real man.”
Lorelei paid the driver and sent him on his way, just as a plop of rain hit her nose. She stepped over Spixworth’s threshold. “Smells musty.”
Brandon dropped the bag he toted inside the door. “Ye gads. Did something die?”
“One of your old frogs is my guess.”
Brandon shook his head and went back out the door.
Lorelei did a short walk-through, opening windows though it was raining and on the cold side. She was exhausted, but the beds needed fresh linens. She and Brandon would be busy setting up fires in the grates. There was no rest for the weary as the old biblical quote went. Or something similar.
Brandon came in carrying wood from the shed and set to lighting the fire in the drawing room.
Once it caught, Lorelei closed the window then sat down, and watched the kindling spark to life.
Brandon sat down next to her. She wrapped an arm around his and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your locket, Lore. You should have let me keep that sixteen shillings.”
“It was wrong, Bran. We made it home, didn’t we? Let’s be thankful for that. It’s you and me. There’s no one to look after us but us now.”
“Yes. Are you sorry we’re home?” he asked.
She smiled, not lifting her head. “Not considering the alternative. But I hate that you have to worry about food, shelter, and clothing. You’re too young.”
“Apparently, I’m not, as that’s all I’ve been thinking of since you demanded that discussion yesterday.” He sounded so grown up, so mature.
“My purpose wasn’t to make you worry. Likely, I can take in some sewing from the village. We’ll have to tend the garden ourselves now with no help.”
Someone pounded on the door. Someone angry.
She jumped to her feet and dashed to the window. She saw no carriage. “You didn’t tell anyone we were coming home, did you?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.
“No! Did you?”
“Only Ginny. But she wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. Run upstairs and get Papa’s pistol. It’s in his old chamber. In the wardrobe.”
“We have a pistol?” His voice was a high, yet quiet enough squeal. “Does it work?”
“Go! I won’t open the door until you’re upstairs. Stand at the ready. If it’s Shufflebottom, we may have to bury a body.”
Brandon shot out of the room, clambering up the stairs.
Lorelei winced but went out into the foyer.
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 marry me, Lorelei.”
“W-what?”
He feathered her forehead with kisses. “I.” Her nose. “Want.” Her left temple. “You.” Her right temple. “To.” Her jawline. “Marry.” The corner of her mouth. “Me.” He nuzzled the column of her neck, backing her to a blocked table. He lifted her off her feet and planted her on the table, pressing himself between her legs, his erection straining toward the hottest part of her. His lips moved across her sternum. With less than deft fingers, he slipped the buttons free from their loops at the back of her ugly gown and tugged the loosened fabric from her chest and took the crest of one breast through her sheer chemise. Its silk fineness was no match for the heat of his mouth. “Will you?”
“Will I-I?”
“Marry me, darling?”
Her hands landed on the front pad of his shoulders, and she attempted a shove. He was as moveable as a marble statue, but he stopped his attack. “I have two conditions, my lord.” She was serious.
He groaned. “You’re killing me.” He set his hands atop her thighs. “All right. If your conditions are within my power to grant, granted they will be. You have my word.”
“I will not be made a laughingstock, my lord. I may have no dowry, but I have my pride.”
“As God is my witness, Lorelei, you will never be a laughingstock. And I have no need of a dowry. I only want you.” He touched her lips with his. “What is the other?”
“My brother has an art studio in my home. That he is welcome wherever I live. Always.”
“Granted.” He pressed his forehead to hers.
“Wrap your legs around me, love.” He tugged up her skirts, slid his hands in the crease of her drawers, touched her hot wet center. He pressed his thumb against her clitoris and kneaded. Moved his mouth over hers, used his tongue to mimic the motion of his fingers. He wouldn’t take her, not until their wedding night but he would give her a taste of how it would be between them. “Is that a yes?” he whispered.
“Yes, that’s a yes,” she whispered back. “Yes, I’ll marry you, my lord.”
“Oh, God, Lorelei,” he panted. “Can’t you see your way to addressing me as Thorne? It seems a little overly lordly calling me by my title with my hand buried inside you.”
Laughter erupted from her in short bursts.
He rubbed his cock against her inner thigh. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster. Her climax burst against his hand and she pulsed against him.
He came. Right there in his breeches.
“We have to return to London, love. I can’t obtain a special license here. And I’m not waiting three weeks for you.”
She panted hot breaths against his shoulder. “All right.”