The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Seven

I

n less than an hour, the bloody business was done. Marcus’s body was safely removed from Harlowe’s flat, and Thorne was back home. The inquest had been a tedious formality, the horrendous weather none too helpful. After a bath of hot water to ward off the chill, he strode into Lorelei’s chamber, where Bethie held vigil, her expression rigid, yet worried.

Thorne went to Lorelei’s bedside, drawing her hand into his. “What is it? Is she worse?” He lowered himself into the nearby chair.

“Her ladyship’s worried for somethin’—more than’s normal.” Bethie scowled at him.

Had his wife confided his and Lorelei’s paid arrangement? He shucked that thought as quickly as it rose. It didn’t seem likely. Of course, one never knew. “I don’t know what it can be, but I can surely guess.”

Heat crept up Thorne’s neck. He placed a palm against Lorelei’s cheek, Rowena’s predicament flooding his brain. His wife’s face remained overly warm, and though she’d slipped into slumber, he could see it was not restful. Guilt pricked his conscience. Slipping the laudanum in her tea against her direct wishes was less than honorable, yet how else was he to be assured of her getting proper rest? Of course, he could not have managed nearly so successfully without the cooperation of her guard dog of a maid.

“I would have more cool water in the basin, Bethie. Afterwards, perhaps you should rest. I shall stay with her ladyship tonight.”

Bethie hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but her hesitation was brief. Instead, she nodded sharply. “Very good, milord,” she said, and slipped from the room.

The door closed quietly behind her, and Thorne’s attention was snagged by the painting over the hearth. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. The subject matter was a ferocious depiction of Brutus at his worst. Why on earth would Lorelei keep such a sordid work in her bedchamber? It was a conundrum. He grimaced. As was Harlowe’s disappearance.

Bethie’s ramrod countenance, coupled with her stocky stature, doused him with a sudden sense of relief. He could take comfort knowing that Bethie would guard Lorelei with her life—at least until Thorne located Harlowe’s whereabouts and discovered exactly what the devil was going on.

Lorelei woke the next morning, her mouth dry as cotton and her legs confined by—what the devil was Thorne up to? He lay atop the coverings, one leg pinning hers, his breath hot against her neck. The instinct to roll over and curl up next to him swirled through her like warm butter. She reached toward his scruffy jaw—memories crashed through. His conversation with Miss Hollerfield, pounding into her mushy brain: When is the child expected? Two months.

She jerked her hand away. Humiliation shuddered through her. Her throat ached with defeat. Thorne stirred next to her. Her eyes flew open, meeting his ghost-gray ones, clouded with desire, longing, need… She had no wish to contemplate their depths. She struggled to move. His body tensed over hers, trapping her.

Before she could capture her breath, his mouth descended on hers in a gentle assault, strategically designed to disarm. A tantalizing brush of firm lips against hers, a tease of his tongue at the edge of her mouth. Oh God, she’d missed him. His strength, the protection of his arms, the weight of his body reassuring her. Wouldn’t any woman revel in the feel of his heat? His lov— She gasped and shoved him away. Startled hurt blazed into a white-hot anger, completing her humiliation.

He drew back, his gaze appearing almost confused. Pained even. And she’d almost fallen for it.

Slowly Thorne rolled onto his back and lay his head on a folded arm, watching her with a hooded gaze.

Lorelei kicked at his legs until he moved them then scrambled from the bed. Her vision swam before her, forcing her to grasp the post at the foot, having risen too quickly. As her head cleared and the pummeled hammering in her ears subsided, daylight poured through the sheer linings covering the windows. The rain from the night before had washed away every dark cloud, leaving a sun-drenched sky.

Rain. Ginny.She froze.

“What is it?” His tone was lazy, but experience told her he missed nothing.

“Ginny. Lady Maudsley.”

“Brockway saw her to the Martindales’ masquerade.”

Panic squeezed the air from her chest. “What! Does he know how dangerous that is for her?”

His lips tightened, but he spoke calmly. “They traveled via our carriage. With the heavy rain, I daresay no one paid any mind.”

She could only pray that was true. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Ginny would be fine. Lord Brockway was a gentleman, and he surely understood Ginny’s situation. Her mind shifted to her current dilemma. “What are you doing in here?”

He ignored her question. “You should be in bed. You took a chill last night, you know.”

As the night’s events unfolded in her mind, so did her outrage. “And you plied me with laudanum.”

The chagrin in his expression was surely feigned. “How else were you to rest?”

“You as good as lied to me. Again,” she bit out.

He sighed and sat up.

“You… you… slept in my bed.”

“I was looking after you! You were ill.”

“Keeping me prisoner, more like,” she muttered.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Do you think I shall stand by knowing you fathered a child in every corner of England and still expect to bed me?”

He stilled. “Pardon?”

An image in her mind took shape, dustcovers over furniture, a young boy’s voice. They’re sayin’ the pa of Miss Hollerfield’s babe was found dead.

Her gaze snapped to his. “You’re not dead.”

Lorelei’s pale features struck Thorne like a dull blade to the heart. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and slid to the floor. Terrified, he leapt from the bed and crouched beside her. Fathomless blue eyes trapped his gaze.

“They said you were dead. Who is dead? Someone is dead?” With each question, her voice rose, every shred of her control appearing to dissipate.

He wrapped an arm under her shoulders, looped the other beneath her knees, and scooped her up. “Of course I’m not dead. I shan’t die for a very long time.”

A shudder racked her slight form.

“Ah, I see that distresses you.” He said it lightly, teasingly. “Rest assured, my love, I shall die sometime.” He placed her gently on the bed and tipped her chin up with his finger. “You are not yet recovered, I think.” He moved to the bellpull and tugged.

After a sharp knock on the door, Bethie’s head appeared through a crack.

“Fresh tea for Lady Kimpton,” he said. She pierced a sharp glance in Lorelei’s direction, nodded, then withdrew.

Thorne ran a hand over his unshaven jaw and looked down at his wrinkled clothes. The first order of business was a clear head. He walked over to the door adjoining his chamber and turned the knob. Nothing. He peered over his shoulder. She reclined against the pillows, arms folded beneath her breasts, lips compressed. The sight had hunger of a different kind gnawing at him. He wanted her, badly. Unfortunately, everything about her demeanor rejected him. “Lorelei,” he growled. “Where’s the key?”

And there was still the business of finding Harlowe. He couldn’t possibly tell her that her brother’s valet had been murdered. Then would come the explanations that he had no idea where her brother was and that Harlowe had fathered a courtesan’s unborn child.

“Who’s dead?” she demanded.

Then again, perhaps he should. He stopped and faced her fully as the realization of her previous words struck. “Who told you I was dead?”

Though she hadn’t moved, the room took on a stillness that rivaled a slab of granite. Had she somehow caught word of Marcus’s death? Where the devil would she have heard such a thing? And from whom? Nothing in her features gave him any indication of her thoughts.

Nothing made sense. He didn’t know how long they held that standoff, each considering the other, no sound but the pounding of his heart, until it was finally broken by Bethie’s appearance with the tea.

Irritated, Thorne stormed into his chamber by the untraditional route—through the hallway.

Lorelei sipped her tea and watched Bethie absently, contemplating Ginny’s and her venture the evening before. Someone was dead. That’s what the boy had said. She didn’t think she’d imagined the entire thing. But who was dead? And why should it matter to Miss Hollerfield’s servants? She could still feel the weight of Thorne’s leg over hers. Thorne was definitely not dead.

“Well. ’Tis good to see you and Lord Kimpton have patched up yer spats.”

Startled, Lorelei blinked. Bethie disappeared into the sitting room. “Patched up our spats? You saw him walk into her house. You called him a cur.” Blast, she had almost succumbed to his sweet, teasing kisses. Anger lodged through her. Was she so weak she’d let him play with her affections so loosely?

Two weeks.In two weeks, she would be free to find Brandon without monetary restraint. And why should that thought distress her? It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Of course it is. She would never be able to sustain resisting him if he let loose that legendary charm on her. Her husband was much too sure of himself.

First things first, however. Lady Dankworth’s tea. She’d accepted the invitation weeks ago. If there was one place to unearth information, it was at Lady Dankworth’s. A small smile filled her for the first time in what seemed forever. “Bethie, please send for hot water. I’d like to dress.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” she said firmly. “Just do as I ask.” She rose and scribbled a quick note to Ginny telling her they’d meet at Lady Dankworth’s. Perhaps between the two of them they could think of a way to locate the absent Miss Hollerfield. And, if she was lucky, who she might contact regarding Brandon’s whereabouts.