The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

One

London, 1818

T

he crack of her hand echoed against the rich wainscoting throughout the entry hall a full second before Thorne registered the heat rising on his cheek from the sting of the blow.

“You bastard,” she hissed.

His surroundings sharpened into brilliant shards of color, from the grooves in the freshly waxed wood, to the flaming tips of the candlelight in the overhead chandelier, to the green velvet drapes and the sheen of Lorelei’s cerulean-blue silk skirts. Fury emanated from every pore of his wife’s slight body. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the fire flashing in her dark blue eyes that ignited the blood to a violent surge through his veins. He’d never witnessed her temper before. Lorelei was renowned for her even keel.

His gaze fell to the missive that dangled from his fingers, stuffed in his hand by some miscreant just as he’d reached the steps of his London townhome, those same fingers singeing as he drew the note to his lower back. He’d had only a second to scan the first line before Oswald, so annoyingly efficient, swung open the door. Words that seared his brain as if branded with a hot medieval iron: That pressing matter we spoke of previously, my darling? I’m certain you remember… Of course he remembered. Hell, it had only been a day ago. And, worse? From her. The longtime mistress he’d dismissed—generously so, in his opinion—prior to his and Lorelei’s nuptials a decade ago. Rowena Hollerfield.

Thorne studied his wife then cleared his throat. “I… er… suppose you’ve heard?” He struggled for a bland tone though his face felt made of clay, recalling the event.

Rowena had called out from her carriage, “Lord Kimpton, a moment of your time, if you please.” Pleasant, serene. Strategic. That was Rowena.

His pace had accelerated. She was clever, that one, having the unerring knack of anticipation—of his reluctance.

His good friend, Brock, the Marquis of Brockway, slid an amused sideways glance Thorne’s way. Brock and Thorne had known one another since Eton, which was the only reason Thorne let his friend get away with his nonsense. Thorne picked up his step, choosing to ignore Brock and Rowena. Perhaps he could reach the corner before—

“I’m carrying, sir.” The femininity of her voice tinkled over the early afternoon air and straight down the back of his neck in icy tendrils that snaked about his spine, squeezing each and every vertebra. Carrying what? And why the hell should he care? He’d long since settled with her by way of a pricey set of emerald earbobs.

But a cloud of doom hovered over him, and he pulled up short. Thorne shot a glance about. Thankfully, most of the pedestrians had shifted their paths to the opposite side of the street. All but the notorious Lady Dankworth and her maid, touting two of the ugliest dogs he’d ever seen.

He managed to suppress a groan. Rowena’s voice dipped in that dramatic pause that had once thrilled him, but now grated over his skin like sanded paper. After assuring himself that the Dankworth woman was clearly out of earshot, he sauntered over to Rowena’s elaborate conveyance. She’d left him with no choice, after all. Reaching her carriage, he tipped his hat, when he longed to throw it to the ground and stomp on it in a fit of temper. “What the devil are you up to, Rowena?”

She sniffed. Nothing like a cry, but more a condescending huff through a delicate piece of lace she held at her nose. “I’m carrying, sir. A child. Your child.”

“What!” He checked his tone and again glanced about for too-close passersby. If Lady Dankworth heard anything as titillating as this, true or not, it would be the talk of London in all of twenty minutes. “That is ludicrous, Rowena, and you know it.” He spoke softly but sternly.

The woman was as beautiful as ever, lifting one perfectly shaped brow and gracing him with the cynical smile with which he’d become familiar. Her lilting tone never changed despite her hardened expression. “Perhaps. But we both know the circles in which you travel. Scandal is the driving force, my lord.” She plucked a piece of lint from her shoulder and flicked it in his direction. And after a long pause, she planted the figurative blow with a well-placed clout to his jaw. “If you must know, the child is Lord Harlowe’s.”

Thorne froze, then narrowed his gaze on her. That he could certainly believe. Brandon Radcliff, Viscount Harlowe, had an artistic temperament that was a draw to many women. The man spouted poetic dribble at the drop of a hat.

Rowena relaxed against the cushions, revealing she was not alone. Her traveling companion sat deep within the shadows, eyes lowered, though he knew the girl took in every word. The small cynical smile returned, highlighting a coldness in Rowena’s exotic dark eyes. Her beauty had nothing on Lorelei. “I shall send word when it is convenient for us to talk. And make no mistake—we will talk,” she said. “How perfectly lovely seeing you again, Lord Kimpton. ’Tis almost like old times. I shall see you soon—”

“How could you!” Lorelei’s hurt cry yanked him back from his scattered thoughts.

Hurting Lorelei was the last thing Thorne had intended. How was it possible she had learned so quickly? Lady Dankworth couldn’t have heard the slightest bit of his conversation with Rowena. She’d seen, however.

Frantic images of Lorelei barring her door or, worse, removing herself to their country estate whipped through him. The promises he’d made upon her acceptance of his proposal filed neatly through his head. I will not be made a laughing stock, my lord. My dowry may be non-existent, but I have my pride. “Lorelei, darling, your broth—”

“Don’t you dare speak to me of my brother.”

Thorne smoothed a hand over his cravat, the stiff fabric calming in direct contrast to the emotions raging through him. He’d never been a smooth one with words. That was her brother’s specialty. But, by God, this was his home. Here, he was king, in control.

Lorelei was the wife, dammit. Didn’t he own her, in the eyes of the law? What a fool he was. He wanted nothing but her happiness. But to confess his feelings? Now? A shudder of revulsion skittered up his spine.

Still, she meant everything to him. He pulled in a deep breath. He’d face her wrath, and after she calmed a bit, he would explain everything. He let out a resigned sigh. “She means nothing to me.”

“She?” The high-pitched astonishment bounded off the foyer walls, stinging his ears.

Ah, hell.

Lorelei drew herself up to her full height of five feet, four inches. She barely reached his chin in the dainty heels, and she spun away. She made it up two steps of the grand staircase before she threw over her shoulder, “I’ll be out of the house by the day’s end.”

That stung and infuriated him. “And where do you propose to go?”

She sniffed, sounding nothing like Rowena. “Spixworth Hall.” Her hurt was genuine, but a man had his pride. And he was a man. The man.

The words flew from him before he could stop himself. “I forbid it.” Wincing, he gentled his voice. “That puts you right through Norwich, darling. There’s too much unrest with the Reform—”

She tossed those flaxen curls. “All of that was over twenty years ago.”

“Spixworth Hall is uninhabitable.” Not to mention a veritable nightmare from London to reach. “It’s too isolated.”

When Thorne had met Lorelei, she was a prickly eighteen, raising her thirteen-year-old brother. After their parents’ death, there’d been no money for her to send Harlowe back to Eton.

It had only been by the sheerest luck that Thorne had met her. Their attraction had been instant, but at five and twenty he hadn’t been ready for marriage. She’d put her pert little nose in the air and said she had no intention of waiting on the whim of some man to provide for her future, earl or not.

Thorne wasn’t stupid. Once Lorelei was launched in London, he would lose her to some fop. He was no hero, but he the idea of another man claiming her favor could not be borne. So he’d taken the only possible action despite not having been ready—he’d made her his own.

And the natural course of sending her brother back to school was also to his advantage.

“You’re not even listening,” she said, and started back up the stairs.

Her words penetrated and yanked him back to the dire situation in which he now found himself.

Each step up Lorelei took, Thorne’s chest tightened, restricting his ability to breathe. He looked about for something, anything to seize her attention. But, of course, the entry way was immaculate. The tall Ming vase overfilled with Cymbidium orchids framed in a leafy presentation that stood on the hall table offered nothing viable. They were Lorelei’s pride and joy. The mirror was so shiny, the candles from the chandelier could blind one. Neither a streak nor speck of dust marred the floor. The only items remotely out of place were his cloak and hat slung over a nearby skinny highback chair.

Another soft scuff of her slippers and still she hadn’t looked back. Not a strand of her perfect blonde coiffure escaped its place. The myriad times he’d pushed impatient hands through her silken locks to send the hairpins flying stabbed through him. He couldn’t lose her. “Lorelei, stay.” His voice cracked, hoarse, sounding nothing like the confident man he’d grown into despite his father, who had tried at every turn to smash him.

She stilled. “You sent my brother away. He’s an artist, not a f-fighter. He could be killed.” The softness of her voice pierced him with the sharpness of a blade. She held her head high, one slipper-shod foot four steps from the top. She shook her head, hard enough that one of the pins slipped and let loose a rogue curl. “And now, another woman?” She broke off on a choked cry, darting up the remaining stairs.

Sent her brother away? “Darling, wait.”

“I shan’t forgive you for that. Ever.”

“Dammit, Lorelei. Don’t. Don’t run from me.” He took the stairs two at a time. Reached the top as she turned down the hall of the wing where their chambers nestled side by side. He should never have allowed her a separate room. At the end of hall, her hand twisted the knob on her door. “I’ll pay you,” he blurted. She stopped but didn’t turn. “One thousand pounds if... if you can manage a fortnight. Just until—” Until what?

The tightness in his gut registered as fear. Fear he’d never gain ground. But he had the advantage. Lorelei had nothing. She’d had no dowry. He didn’t need or want one. She’d be destitute without him. He’d saved her useless brother from debtor’s prison. But now, her brother had stooped to a new low. Abandoning not only his sister, but a child as well. So what if the mother was one of the most sought-after courtesans in London? Lorelei would never care about such a detail, though most of the beau monde would turn her away if they knew she felt that way.

Blast. The short, cruel thing would be to enlighten her. Take her by the shoulders and shake her until she heard the truth. Make her realize that he hadn’t put her brother on board a ship, show her that her precious Brandon was acting as an irresponsible cad, running from his responsibilities of a mistake—a mistake most men of their standing took pains to buy their way out of. Hell, the man was more a noose around one’s neck. Had been since Thorne and Lorelei’s wedding.

Lorelei’s body stiffened, and he swallowed the words. Thorne could never hurt her so callously. She turned, pierced him with flinty blue eyes. The world revolved to a stop, and perspiration gathered at the nape of his neck. He inhaled through his nose, letting out a slow stream through pursed lips.

“Per week,” she said. His wife’s tone, usually warm and full of husky mischief, radiated cold gray steel.

“What?”

“A thousand pounds. Per week. For two weeks I shall stay. And I want half now.” Her crystallized pitch would have made Medusa proud. Curiosity driving him, Thorne looked her in the eye, certain he would turn to stone, while bitter irony held him in a firm grip.

Two weeks. Could he find that no-good brother of hers in that amount of time? Force him to acknowledge his responsibility? Thorne had his doubts, but he would accept her offer. Give her half now, and pray it was enough to keep her from leaving before he located Harlowe.

But he had his pride as well. In a tone that matched her cold glare, he said, “Done.” He stepped back, enough out of reach to keep from grabbing her, with the scent of her hair annihilating what was left of any remaining sense, good or bad. He tipped his head, unable to stem the sarcasm. “Perhaps you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ve urgent business to attend.” He stalked down the stairs to his study and shut the door with a solid click. Someday he might learn to hold his tongue. Not speak until spoken to—a quality his father had tried beating into him until the day the old bastard dropped dead of an apoplexy when Thorne was but ten and three.

He tossed the note he still clenched on his desk, furious with his reaction—no, overreaction—and moved behind the desk. He peered up at his father’s portrait with disgust. The pompous ass. It showed in the set of his shoulders, his grim facade. He made a silent vow to remove it to the attic. Or perhaps make Harlowe paint over it as retribution.

Thorne reached up and ran his fingers along the gilded edge of the frame, just inside one corner, and pressed the minute mechanism. The large painting parted slightly from the wall without a sound. He slipped a key from his watch fob pocket and fit it into his pride and joy—one of the first burglar-resisting safes created by Charles Chubb. Granted, it was a test model, but it worked magnificently. Talk about an exquisite piece of art.

Thorne counted out several hundred guineas, locked the safe, and restored the painting to its rightful position.

Of all the asinine things he could have thought of to entice his charming and beautiful wife into remaining by his side, he had to offer money. It was the panic, of course. Money she would likely use, inevitably leading him to the same fate she’d threatened. Losing her.

Well, he’d bought himself a fortnight to locate Harlowe and hopefully convince Lorelei to stay. He jerked out the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. He scribbled off a quick note and rang for Oswald.

Minutes later, snatching up his top hat, he jammed it on his head. There was some satisfaction in slamming the door behind him. Only fifty feet from the stables, the heavens parted, dumping a waterfall of ice-cold tears that soaked through every layer he wore.

The perfect ending to the perfect day, eh? There was nothing now but to follow through on this idiotic voyage he’d forged for himself. For if his wife found out about the babe ...

Lorelei hurried back to the stairway, blinking back unshed tears. She’d always believed her husband a Goliath. A man larger than life whose gray eyes could sear her with their passionate depths with a single glance. A stray dark lock of his too-long hair draping over one brow, his firm lips twisting in that sensual grin that more times than not had had her rushing her goodbyes at some silly soiree or musicale at the mere thought he might be home waiting for her. When that square jaw of his firmed out of some irritation that had seeped under his skin, his exasperation sometimes shifted quickly to ardor if he caught her grinning before she could manage to mask it. In an instant, his noble roots evaporating, ceasing as if he were some baseborn thief, he’d catch her up by the waist, tossing her over his shoulder, taking the stairs up two at a time, then stealing her heart. He’d slam the door to his bedchamber and make desperate love to her as if he couldn’t bear to wait another second to possess her body, not the least bit concerned what the servants thought. Her stomach dipped violently. Was all of that gone?

Thorne’s broad shoulders disappeared within the sanctity of his study, and she gripped the carved balustrade to steady her shaking fingers, uncertain how much time had passed. Yet long enough to witness Oswald tapping softly on the door then slipping inside. She should talk to him. Ask him…

She started down the stairs. In the two steps she’d taken, her husband stomped back into the foyer, jammed his hat on his head, and headed out the front door. It shut hard enough behind him to knock the vase with her favorite orchids over and send it crashing to the floor. The echoes rattled the chandelier, and sent candlelight flickering in a violent fury against the walls.

Oswald’s wiry frame reappeared. Lorelei stilled.

Somehow she resisted the urge to bend over at the pain searing through her abdomen. Silently, she willed the tears back, but they betrayed her. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Doing so would amount to acknowledging how deeply Thorne’s words cut. And one word in particular. She.

Lorelei must have dreamt the pain she thought she’d seen in the depths of his gray eyes. Too quickly, that practiced mask of composure he wore so well had slipped into place. Oh, how could she have failed to detect his attentions to another woman? No matter how late Thorne arrived home from his clubs, his meetings in Parliament, never had she even whiffed another’s perfume. Wherever he traipsed in from, night after night, he’d always ended up in her—their—bed.

Fury ripped through her gut at her own gullibility. She, who so stupidly believed her husband had grown to love her. Yet he’d never spoken the words aloud, had he? No, and it was now clear, love from him had been wishful thinking on her part.

She gulped back a sob, refusing to give way to his insufferable behavior. Her sweet, talented younger brother was gone. Into the world, where he could end up maimed or, worse, dead. Despite her efforts to remain calm, her anguished cry escaped. She dashed back the tears with an angry fist and scolded herself. He could only hurt her if she let him. Drawing in a shaky breath, she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and cloaked herself in the anger rushing through her blood.

She.The selfish bastard. She pounded her fist on the heavy wood of the balustrade. Pain shot up her arm, but she ignored it. It was nothing compared to the torment tearing through her heart. He’d promised her fidelity. It was the only thing she’d requested in their marriage contract.

Fury was much easier to bear. She’d kill him. All his lovely compliments—the depth of her blue eyes, the silkiness of her curling blonde tresses, the softness of her creamy skin. Oh, how he’d ached for her. Lies. All of it.

Oh, she’d stay, she fumed. She’d take the lout for his two thousand pounds, and then some. John Brown, Marquis Brockway, had always held her in his affections. Mayhap he’d hold her in other ways once she’d ended this farce of a marriage.

Sorrow hit her chest with the force of a thrown brick. She knew she could never follow through on such a threat. She’d had the unmitigated gall to have fallen in love with the blasted knave. She needed to think. To think, she need to remain calm. Tranquil. Stuff the hurt in a bag and toss it out with the refuse.Drawing air deep in her chest, she released it slowly, and let the quiet of the house steal over her.

Perhaps she had other powers. Thorne’s words began to sink through the fog of her mind. Why would he offer her money to stay? Certainly, it had something to do with the “she.” What else could it be?

Lorelei glanced over the railing to the front door. Indeed. Why would her husband offer her money? It was not as if he held undying love for his devoted wife. She slipped back down the stairs. Feeling like a thief in the night, she darted a quick glance over her shoulder, then stole into his study.

A steady fire burned in the grate, as if waiting for his return. On tiptoes, she drifted to the massive mahogany desk. Her husband was an inherently organized man. Usually not a paper was out of place. But there, on the corner, was a crumpled note. Guilt swamped her, quickly dissipating. She.

God, she hated herself for her mistrust. But she would not be caught unaware again. Boldly, Lorelei lifted the missive, positive that lightening would bolt through the oversized windows and strike her straight in the heart. A sickly sweet fragrance wafted up, nauseating her.

My dearest Thorne,

That pressing matter we spoke of previously? I’m certain you remember. This is of an urgent matter. I look forward to a mutually beneficial resolution. Might I suggest my residence? Dusk tomorrow. Don’t be late.

Ever yours, R. Hollerfield

Lorelei dropped the missive as if it were a coiled snake, a red haze blurring her vision along with the settling of a deep chill within her. It could only be Rowena Hollerfield. The infamous courtesan was known for flaunting her conquests, and the better those coups, the greater her grandstand. Two thousand pounds was not enough.

She stormed from the room and stood in the empty foyer, unsure what to do, how to feel. The emotions roiled through her—she was stunned, furious, frightened. She.

“Oswald,” Lorelei bit out. Her most proper butler had no doubt heard hers and Thorne’s entire disgusting exchange, and he probably realized she’d been snooping as well. He appeared much too quickly to have been otherwise engaged. She should sack him.

The tall, lanky figure bowed. “Yes, my lady?” His kind, wrinkly face was impassive.

“Please contact Mr. Chubb. Have him call first thing in the morn.”

“The locksmith, my lady? Tonight?”

“Tonight.” The feral smile she turned on Oswald had him scurrying back posthaste. She had no doubt Oswald regretted his usual show of unflappability.

“Yes, my lady. First thing.” He stopped. “One thing, if I may, my lady.” He pulled a black pouch from his pocket. “Lord Kimpton asked that I personally make sure you received this.”

“What happened to you, Kimpton? Did your lovely wife finally come to her senses and toss you out?”

Thorne welcomed White’s dark interior and the heat the roaring fire put out. “Get me a towel,” he barked to the attendant. His scowl sent the man scampering. He turned to Brock. The marquis was in line for the dukedom, and not so far in the future, if rumors surrounding his father’s ill health were to be believed.

Thorne ignored his friend’s remark. Damn thing hit too close to the truth.

“Don’t tell me—she blames you for her brother’s disappearance.”

“Worse. She believes I took it upon myself to drop him on a ship bound for the Continent.”

Brock groaned. “I suppose you’ll be sleeping at the club tonight, then.”

Thorne was not about to admit defeat in that arena, but sleeping in his own cold bed held no appeal. The attendant appeared at his elbow, towel in hand. “Brandy,” he said, swiping his face.

“Tell me you did not mention the child?” Sarcasm colored Brock’s tone.

Thorne gritted his teeth. “Do you think me daft, man? Of course I didn’t tell her. I’d never get near her again.” Thoughts of a chastity-filled future stretched before him. No possibility of ever cupping her lovely breasts, perfectly shaped to fit his hands, again; never again teasing her rosy, puckered nipples or having her lush thighs wrapped about his waist, him buried deep within her velvet softness; never again hearing her abandoned cries of release.

No. Keeping the existence of the babe mum was imperative. The fact that the babe belonged to her irresponsible brother would matter naught. Informing Lorelei before he could locate Harlowe was a risk he was not willing to chance.

What angered him most was her believing he needed a mistress when he had a wife such as Lorelei. Always willing to warm his bed. Jesus, it was nothing short of ridiculous. Why had he never told Lorelei how much he loved her? Oh, right. Pride. He tossed back the contents of his tumbler in one great gulp.

Another glass appeared on the table. “Bring the bottle,” he snapped. One glass or two of brandy would not sustain him through this night.