The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Nine

L

orelei blinked. Had she woken at her own funeral? She prayed not. She was not that fond of the color pink. Everywhere she was inundated with pink. Pink blooms, pink swirls, pink beads, everything pink.

“Lady Kimpton?”

Something waved beneath her nose, and she jerked her head back, groaning.

“Please, Lady Kimpton. My sincerest apologies. That was most unthoughtful of me.”

Lorelei struggled to sitting, mortified by her undignified position. “What happened?” A lock of hair draped against her temple. She pushed it off her face, but it sprang back.

Concern emanated from Lady Alymer. She had a kind face and a shock of ginger-colored hair. She was young, early twenties, and had recently come out of mourning from a husband who was almost thrice her age.

“You fainted,” Lady Dankworth said. “’Twas a shocking revelation Lady Alymer dropped on us.” She pointed to Lady Faulk, who lay back against a rose-colored chair, eyes closed. “Alas, you were not the only one.” She glared at Lady Alymer. “Maeve, how could you?”

A cold shiver raced up Lorelei’s spine as Lady Alymer’s words stormed her memory. “Did you s-say Lord Harlowe’s valet was m-murdered?” Marcus?

“I’m terribly sorry to have blurted the news out like that. It momentarily slipped my mind that Lord Harlowe was… er… is your brother.” Lady Alymer’s eyes shone with tears that seemed genuine enough.

“Might I have another drop of tea, Lady Peachornsby?” Lorelei’s words were shaky at best.

Lady Dankworth turned on Lady Aylmer. “Where on earth did you hear such a thing?” It occurred to Lorelei that Lady Alymer had indeed whipped the proverbial rug from beneath Lady Dankworth.

“Yes,” Lorelei said. “I should like to know that as well.” She accepted the refilled cup from Lady Peachornsby and warmed her chilled fingers.

“Why, my maid mentioned it this morning. She said it was—” Lady Alymer stilled, her cheeks matching the darkest pink in the wallpaper.

“Was what?” This from Lady Smythe. She was a very tall, painfully thin woman. Her pointed nose was long and tended to draw one’s gaze to her less than full lips. In point of fact, they were as thin as she was tall.

Lorelei’s cup clattered against the saucer on which she placed it, her fingers shaking badly. “Yes, Lady Alymer. Said it was what?” Her voice came out hardly above a whisper. “W-was my b-brother there as well?”

“No! No, Lady Kimpton. Rest assured Lord Harlowe was not present.”

“How could he be?” Lady Smythe said, her nose wrinkling in confusion. “He was dropped on a ship bound for Spain by none other than Lord Kimp—” She stopped, as did the entire company. She dotted her lace handkerchief over her forehead. “Oh. Dear me. I-I’m terribly sorry, Lady Kimpton.”

Lorelei mustered every ounce of steel within and faced the woman. “Quite so, Lady Smythe. That is the rumor, is it not?” Lady Peachornsby touched her hands, wrapping her fingers about another cup of the bracing tea. She smiled her thanks and turned to Lady Almer. “Please, my lady, continue,” she said softly.

Lady Almer gave a hesitant nod. “Gruesome. She said it was gruesome.”

“How did she learn of this?” Lady Dankworth demanded again.

“She said the valet was her cousin’s beau,” she whispered. “Only last night, her cousin was questioned by the constable. She also said”—Lady Alymer swallowed, a sound that seemed to echo throughout the pink parlor—“Lord Kimpton was summoned to identify his body.”

“Pray explain what you mean by ‘gruesome,’ if you please.” Lorelei could hardly choke out the words. “I’m certain I don’t understand…” The sick sensation knotted through her stomach. If Brandon was indeed on a ship bound for Spain, why was his home not closed, his valet not relieved of his duties?

“She said his quarters were d-destroyed.” Lady Alymer’s freckles were stark against her pale countenance.

Lorelei’s vision swam as if she were going to faint again. She willed it back, taking quick shallow breaths. “Destroyed? By what means?”

Lady Alymer glanced about her small audience, clearly mortified to find herself in such a position.

“It was said his bedchamber and studio were—”

“Were what?”

“Slashed with a k-knife. No picture left untouched, paint smearing the walls…” Her voice trailed off.

“Have more tea, dear,” Lady Peachornsby said.

Lorelei lifted the cup gratefully, but Lady Peachornsby wrapped her fingers about Lorelei’s in an effort to help her steadiness. With another healthy sip, Lorelei could feel her muscles giving way. In fact, they were beginning to feel quite heavy, her stomach queasy. “Perhaps I-I should return home. I fear I am not as recovered as I’d first believed.” A dull throb beat against her temple.

Lady Dankworth stood and moved across the room. “Please send for Lady Kimpton’s carriage.”

Yes, yes. She would be fine once she reached home. Every painting destroyed?

Brandon was in trouble. He would never have besieged her with so much of his work otherwise. Doubts that he’d made it to the Continent seeped into her muddled brain.

Thorne strode through the door Oswald held, Brock on his heels. “How is Lady Kimpton?” he demanded.

“I believe she is better, my lord.”

He tossed Oswald his hat. “Tell her I will visit momentarily.”

“Of course, sir. I will inform her as soon as she returns.”

Thorne stopped. “Returns from where?”

“Lady Dankworth’s tea, my lord.”

“Lady Dankworth is having a tea?” He swallowed a groan. If Lorelei was unaware of his talk with Rowena Hollerfield before, she would be well informed by the time she returned home. This did not bode well. With a scowl, he barked, “Come, Brock. We must make the most of our time.”

Thorne took the stairs two at a time. At least a couple of Harlowe’s paintings were in Lorelei’s suite of rooms. He knocked sharply, then peered around the door. The room was in order, and thankfully empty. The bed was made with no sign of his presence lingering from the night before. Not that he’d shed a single item of clothing. The silent admittance was disappointing.

“Over here,” he said to Brock, pointed above the hearth. The colors of the painting were brilliant with rich blues and greens. Seeing the work up close was somewhat shocking. The scene appeared biblical. Something he’d never quite associated with Harlowe, the poet; Harlowe, the artist; Harlowe, the scoundrel. It was a bit of a stretch. Perhaps not the scoundrel aspect.

“I never considered your wife’s brother as… er… devout, did you?” Brock asked.

“No. It’s odd indeed.”

Thorne sensed a theme emerging—one of betrayal—in this case, Judas kissing Christ.

“Are you certain this work is of his hand?” Brock leaned forward and studied the right hand corner. “His signature is present, in any event.”

“I’ve seen enough of his work to recognize the technique. And look?” Thorne ran his finger over an image of a shortened handle topped with a large, curved blade. “What does this appear like to you?” The object was drawn within the folds of Judas’s long robe, only a shade darker. Thorne stood back from the work, but it was still difficult to make out.

“Looks like a scythe to me. Was he involved in dark arts, do you suppose?”

“I couldn’t begin to venture a guess. I’m sure I have some volume in the library that can help us with details on any symbolism. From my days at Eton, I fear.” Thorne grimaced, spinning around. A few smaller works covered another wall. “Most of these are his as well, but they look to have been painted much earlier than the ones he recently started sending to Lorelei.”

Brock walked over and studied the smaller paintings. “I see what you mean. The brushstrokes look similar, but do not appear as mature as those in the Judas work. The detail is fascinating.”

A bark of laughter burst from Thorne. “I had no idea you were such a connoisseur.” He glanced at the time. “Hm. Some of the more recent paintings he sent over are too vile to hang just anywhere. Lorelei must have placed them elsewhere in the house. He has a studio on the third floor.” They needed to vacate her bedchamber. If were she to return and find him and Brock loitering he probably couldn’t pay her enough to stay. “I’ll admit I did not pay much attention. And as none have shown up in my study…” He shrugged. “I would have noticed that. We’d best leave.” Thorne led the way back to the stairs. “I seemed to recall a couple of more works hanging in the dining room.”

He darted quickly past servants going about their daily duties. Once he reached the formal dining hall, he shooed them out. The room was crowded with large ornate furnishings. The table itself seated thirty at full capacity. Then there was the sideboard. Each piece of furniture was elaborately carved out of the finest mahogany. Wainscoting in a dark paneling covered the lower half of the walls, and the wallpaper matched the deep red of fine wine. The dark hue of the gloomy room set off Harlowe’s works to perfection. Thorne counted six paintings. Again, rich colors with varied subject matters. And not a single biblical figure was featured.

In fact, Thorne could not discern a common theme between the one in Lorelei’s chamber and any of these that lined the dining room walls. One boasted a grand sunset off cliffs, reminiscent of Cornwall. Another showcased naval ships at Dover set to launch for Calais. Soldiers waved to a crowd below, while others said their farewells to loved ones. Another depicted a surprising country scene—a grassy meadow with a pond and animals grazing.

The one at the far end of the chamber was especially intriguing. A simple scene, really, of a young woman sipping her tea, her pretty smile coy, her velvet-brown eyes full of dreams and hope. It was… sweet.An oversized hat covered a portion of her face. It was clear Harlowe had painted his subject with a loving hand. Thorne was amazed. How had he neglected to spot the man’s talent?

He studied the lavish background that pricked his memory. It seemed intimately familiar, but Thorne couldn’t imagine where he’d encountered such. A ruby ring of obscene proportion adorned the third finger of the young woman’s left hand, the one holding her cup. Was it possible Harlowe had fallen in love with the model? It was a frequent enough occurrence. She certainly appeared smitten.

“Here,” Brock said. Thorne’s head snapped around. Brock was pointing to the Dover picture. “Look at this couple.”

He strolled over and grunted. “A lovely young woman held by her fellow going off to war?” He shrugged. “What about it?” He leaned in for a closer look. Hmm, her eyes and smile rested over the shoulder of the gentleman she embraced.

Brock snapped his fingers, jerking Thorne’s gaze to the folds of the woman’s green skirts.

“Another scythe? Definitely a coincidence,” he murmured. “Too much so, in my opinion. Let’s remove this one and any others we find with that symbol to my study. I’ll send Andrews up for the one in Lorelei’s chamber.” They each took an end and lifted the painting from the wall.

A disturbance sounded from the foyer.

“What the devil?” Thorne relinquished the art piece to Brock’s possession and glanced out the door. “Andrews?” The discomfort on the footman’s face kept Thorne from punching first and asking questions later.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but Lady Kimpton missed her step as she alighted from the carriage—”

Thorne rushed forward. “Is she hurt?”

“I don’t believe so, my lord. I caught—”

“Give her over, Andrews. I shall handle matters from here.” He hoisted Lorelei from Andrews and caught the faintest whiff of brandy that mingled with roses. He frowned. “I thought she attended Lady Dankworth’s tea.”

“Aye, sir. She did.”

Lorelei curled against his chest, her trust in him squeezing the air from his lungs. “Thorne?”

“Inform Lord Brockway of my unexpected delay.”

“Consider him informed,” Brock said, lips twitching.

Shaking his head, Thorne carried his inebriated wife up the stairs. “I’ve half a mind to forbid you from future teas, madam,” he said softly as he made his way down the hall to her chambers.

She rubbed her head against his chest much like an affectionate kitten. A kitten whose claws at present were retracted, because even the tiniest claws drew blood.

“They said Brandon’s valet had been murdered,” she whispered. “Murdered. Is it true?”

He grimaced. As much as he hated lying, he hating having to admit the truth just as much. Lorelei should never have to hear talk of something as ghastly as murder. He kicked the door open to her chamber, startling Bethie. “It’s true.” Lorelei’s body shook with silent sobs.

“My lady,” Bethie gasped.

“She’s fine, Bethie. Let us be. I shall ring for you in a bit.” He glanced down at the package in his arms. “You might prepare the saline wash, however, for the aching head your ladyship is bound to wake with.”

The door closed silently, and Thorne laid Lorelei on the bed. He leaned her head on his chest and worked the fastenings down the back of her gown with deft fingers. His fingers grazed the base of her spine just below her corset. Warm skin was no match for her delicate chemise. His pulse threatened to leap through his skin.

The ties from her corset tickled his wrist, and he tugged them free. As they loosened, she moaned, an ecstatic whimper that sent the blood surging straight to his cock. In reality, it was most likely relief from her bindings and not undying lust, to his utmost regret.

Lorelei’s arms hung at her sides, her hot breath heating his shoulder. He drew the brightly colored frock down her arms and brought her to her feet, letting it slide over her slim hips and down her legs. A heap of brilliant yellow silk that pooled at his feet.

Thorne swallowed. Honestly, what had he been thinking? He should have let Bethie take care of Lorelei. Ha, why bother lying to himself? The opportunity to savor her was too great. Reveling in her rose-scented skin, feeling the softness of her skin, taking in the sweet heated breath though his shirt, running his hands over her satiny arms—the honor was truly his.

Her vulnerability reached deep inside. He would do anything within his power to shelter her from hurt—aching head notwithstanding. Even if it meant dragging that brother of hers from the dregs of hell, he’d manage that as well, he vowed.

“I do hope you enjoyed your tea, darling.” He chuckled softly. Her arms crept around his neck, and his breath stopped. “You do realize you are potted, my love?”

“Mmm?”

“Intoxicated, dear. Muddled.”

She looked up at him, her gaze unfocused. The effect rendered him frozen. She blinked, breaking her mesmeric hold over him. He unhooked her arms from his neck, and he went down to his knees, setting her hands on his shoulders. “Steady now,” he said, slipping off her one shoe, then the other.

Creamy thighs hit him at eye level, and he swallowed past a hard lump, rethinking his current position. He’d best leave the silk stockings. He rose quickly. “A small respite for you, my lady.”

Her arms snaked back around his neck and tightened, her nose buried in the crook of his shoulder. He stood fully, pulling her up with him, though resisting her body completely was not something he could manage at the moment. He held her steady. She was soused after all.

“D-don’t leave me, Thorne. I-I was so frightened. I-I thought you… were d-dead.” The words were a heated, stuttered mumble against his neck and threatened to drop him back to his knees, where restraining himself would prove impossible. With a groan, he pulled her weightlessness tightly into him. Wisps of flaxen hair had worked free, brushing his cheeks, their whispered touch teasing him without a shred of mercy.

“I told you, I shan’t die for a long while.”

“Please, I-I don’t want to be alone.”

A candidate for sainthood?“Of course I’ll stay, darling, just for a bit.” He’d qualify later. Surely the Almighty was keeping count. With one arm, Thorne tugged the covers back and laid her down. She grasped his wrists.

Her reluctance to let go drew his smile. “No—”

Her fingers moved and clasped his cravat. She tugged his face to hers.

Before he could gather his bearings, her mouth found his in a desperate hunger. He was much too weak of will to resist such an onslaught. Her tongue tasted of brandy and woman, and, by God, he gave back. Her kiss sang through his veins. His one hand found her breast. When her nipple hardened against his palm, his own kiss deepened, his tongue stroking her with an ache that would go unsatisfied. His arousal grew fierce against the flap of his buckskins. God, to throw her back, grind himself against the heat between her legs—

Thorne jerked his mouth from hers. “Lorelei. Darling.” The words came out strangled. He had to stop. She would never forgive him on the morrow.

Her hand slid down his chest to the front of his breeches. Damned if his hand didn’t close over hers to pull her touch away. But defending himself from her was not only ridiculous, but futile. Pressure, he needed pressure. His mind grasped thoughts of her fingers tightening around his cock. And the thoughts drove him wild. He shouldn’t. But he did—he squeezed her hand around him.

He dragged his other hand from her breast and freed the buttons straining on the flap of his breeches, then guided her hand back up over his bared skin. The sound escaping his throat was unhuman, animalistic. The contrast of her cool fingers on his hot flesh finished off any resolution of resistance. Pleasure pained him.

He thrust his tongue back in her mouth, drinking in the sweet, hot fire of her desire. His cock throbbed beneath her—their—fingers. He broke away to breathe, “Yes,” but only for a second, taking her mouth once more as his hips lifted in a rhythmic motion, matching time with the dance of his tongue. “Harder, darling. Squeeze harder.” Only he was the one squeezing his hand over hers, praying he didn’t bruise her fingers with his grip.

Touch. He needed to touch her. His other hand found the heat between her legs. Hot and so wet, she writhed beneath him. He parted the soft velvet folds, pressed his thumb against the nub at the crest, and treated her to that same primal dance. Her cries spilled into his mouth. He kept one hand over hers, massaging his arousal in a frenzy, his other pumping against her sex in relentless fervor.

Faster, harder, more desperate than he could have ever realized. God, he’d missed this. Missed her. He refused to let up. The urge to feel her climax against his lips came too late as she pulsed against his fingers. That was all it took for his seed to pour over their joined fingers. He stroked until he had nothing left, suckling her bottom lip, raining kisses over her jaw, her cheeks, her eyelids, before finally resting his forehead on hers.

Slowly, he rose and gazed down at her resting form. Dark lashes were stark against her pale skin, and so, so lovely his chest hurt. Her own rose and fell in a steady pattern. With the greatest of efforts, he forced his hand from her sex that still quivered with resistance. “I love you,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her lush mouth. “God, how I love you.”

A small feminine snore escaped her. His shoulders fell. Ah, well, she wouldn’t have believed him regardless. He hefted himself away from the bed.

“Don’t leave,” she mumbled.

He couldn’t have if someone held him at sword point. “It’s all right, darling. I’m going to draw the drapes. You’ll thank me when you’ve woken.”

He dampened a cloth and cleaned Lorelei’s hands, then pulled the covers up to her chin. After closing the drapes, he stirred the fire and kicked off his boots. Once stripped of his breeches, he crawled in next to her and brought her into his body, letting out a long breath that conformed in perfect unison with her already regulated rhythm.