Once Upon an Irritatingly Magical Kiss by Bree Wolf
Chapter One
New to London
London 1803 (or a variation thereof)
Nine Years Later
Mr. Thorne Sharpe stood on the edge of the ballroom, hands linked behind his back, eyes sweeping over the assembled guests. Although his heart beat in a steady rhythm, he could not deny the slow crawl of anxiety along the back of his neck.
He was well aware of the looks cast in his direction. How could he not be? After all, London’s high society did not exactly try to hide their disdain for him and his profession. In fact, they stared at him quite openly, whispering behind fans and glasses filled with imported liquor.
Yes, here he was standing among them, the ton, the crème de la crème of society. Of course, Thorne was not ignorant of why he had been invited. For one, he was a peculiarity, something fascinating to gaze upon and gossip about. For another, by now, all of London was aware of his lucrative business dealings, aware that he had amassed a fortune most could only ever dream of, aware that he was looking for a wife.
“Mr. Sharpe, how good to see you this evening,” Lord Hartmore greeted him with a friendly nod, the look in the man’s eyes, however, spoke of the same sense of superiority Thorne could see in the eyes of all those around him. “I hope you’re settling in well.”
Thorne nodded, doing his best to act accordingly, to display the sort of manners expected by people of Lord Hartmore’s station. “Quite well. Thank you.” He allowed his gaze to sweep around the room, taking in the lively playing orchestra as well as the many dancers crowded upon the dance floor. “It is a most entertaining evening.”
Trivial chitchat followed, giving Thorne the opportunity to assess Lord Hartmore more thoroughly. The deep wrinkles upon the man’s face made him look more aged than the gray in his hair. They spoke of strain and concern, burdens that weighed upon his shoulders day and night as Thorne now knew was true. As far as he was aware, Lord Hartmore enjoyed more than the occasional gamble, which had lost him most of his fortune. Recently, he had even been forced to sell the townhouse his family had held in London for generations. Indeed, the situation was growing more dire by the minute…and from the looks of it, Lord Hartmore knew that Thorne was aware of it.
Indeed, it was a barely concealed look of disdain that lingered in the older man’s eyes. He knew he needed Thorne’s fortune, yet he could not help but hold it against him. Lord Hartmore like so many others considered themselves superior, expecting the world to be laid at their feet, and were outraged when they discovered it not to be so.
“Shall I introduce you to my daughter?” Lord Hartmore asked, a polite smile upon his tense face. “She is most eager to make your acquaintance.”
Thorne inclined his head courteously. “I would like nothing more, my lord.”
Yes, finding a wife among English high society was part of Thorne’s plan. It was necessary in order to be accepted into their circle. Never would he be considered an equal; however, with a society wife at his side, his chances of finding favor would increase. Thorne knew that he needed society’s support in order to make a difference. He needed those who shaped the land with laws and regulations to listen to him, to hear his words and heed them.
Thorne knew that he and Lord Hartmore had much in common in this regard. They both had aspirations and needed the other in order to obtain them. Hartmore needed Thorne’s fortune, and Thorne needed Hartmore’s influence and standing. If only the man’s poor daughter, innocent in all of this, need not be involved.
In truth, Thorne did not cherish the thought of marrying a stranger. He knew how the ton conducted their marital affairs, and he could not say he approved of it.
He himself had grown up with nothing, with neither fortune nor family. His parents had died when he had still been young, but old enough to survive on the streets. He could not recall how many siblings he had lost. He could neither recall their names nor their faces. That life seemed so distant now as though it had not been his own past but someone else’s instead. Still, the emptiness of his childhood still lingered, and deep down, Thorne had always wanted what he had never had.
Not truly, at least.
A family.
Following Lord Hartmore’s gaze, Thorne paused when his eyes fell upon a golden-haired beauty. She stood with a friend, her sparkling blue eyes animated as they spoke and laughed. Her cheeks shone rosy, complementing the light blue of her gown. Although she looked like a dozen other debutantes around the room, there was something fierce in her gaze, something wild and untamed that spoke to Thorne.
Was she Lord Hartmore’s daughter? Would he find himself married to her in a matter of months? Weeks perhaps?
At the thought, Thorne’s apprehension turned to something else, something warm and delicious. Anticipation coursed through his veins, and he barely managed to still his feet before they could carry him across the room and to her side. Never before had he experienced such an overwhelming reaction to a woman. Perhaps not all hope was lost after all. Perhaps for once, the world would work in his favor.
His heart sank a moment later when it was not the golden-haired beauty who reluctantly moved toward them, but her friend instead.
Heeding her father’s beckoning gesture, Miss Mortensen whispered a few words to her friend and then hesitantly moved across the ballroom toward them. When her gaze fell upon him, she seemed to draw in a shuddering breath as though she had to force herself to continue onward. Soft blond curls danced upon her shoulders, her skin pale and growing paler in the warm glow of the chandeliers above. For all intents and purposes, the young woman looked frightened.
Thorne frowned. Of course, he had expected Miss Mortensen to be somewhat displeased with her father’s choice for a husband. However, he had not expected her to look at him like a frightened deer. What was it about him that inspired such fear?
“Mr. Sharpe,” Lord Hartmore addressed him when Miss Mortensen had reached their side, offering a polite, but somewhat strained smile in greeting, “may I present my daughter, Miss Sarah Mortensen? Sarah, my dear, this is Mr. Sharpe.”
Offering the frightened girl a formal bow, Thorne smiled at her. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sarah.”
The moment her name left his lips, Thorne realized his mistake. He saw her eyes widen before they fell from his as though his blunder, the intimate use of her name, had somehow proven to her that he was to be feared.
Miss Mortensen exhaled a shuddering breath, her eyes still glued to the floor as she clamped her hands together to keep them from trembling. “How…How do you find London, Mr. Sharpe?” Her voice was no more than a whisper, and she glanced up at her father in desperate need of reassurance.
Lord Hartmore’s jaw seemed tense, but he nodded to his daughter. His shoulders straightened as he regarded Thorne in a way that made Thorne think that he held no more importance in their world than a tool that refused to function. It was in its essence what was wrong with the world…at least in Thorne’s opinion.
“It is most diverting,” Thorne replied to her question, trying his best to put her at ease. Perhaps somewhere beneath this shaking exterior existed a kind and warmhearted, young woman. “A beautiful and important city to be sure, historically as well as economically.”
At his reference to his trade, Miss Mortensen tensed, casting another pleading look at her father.
Lord Hartmore nodded to her, urging her to continue the conversation.
“Where do you hail from, Mr. Sharpe?” Miss Mortensen inquired, forcing another strained smile onto her face.
“Manchester,” Thorne replied, pride ringing in his voice. He knew that the ton despised him for his origin and upbringing; yet he himself felt nothing but pride for all he had accomplished. It only fueled his desire to continue on and change the world not only for himself but also for others. People Lord Hartmore and his peers would barely even glance at if they were to cross paths. “It is a most inspiring city, changing rapidly, new businesses stamped out of the ground every day. It holds the promise of the future, lives changed and living conditions improved by machines to aid us in our daily struggles.” Thorne inhaled a deep breath, urging himself to slow down. Always when he spoke of his plans, of his vision for the future, did he find himself carried away as though he was not the one holding the reins.
Again, Miss Mortensen smiled at him, and again, it looked strained. “Do you plan to…to return to Manchester?”
“Of course,” Thorne replied without a thought. “Most of my business is there. I’ve already opened one cotton mill, and I plan to open another sometime in the next year.”
Another shuddering breath left Miss Mortensen’s lips, and her cheeks seemed to pale even more.
Thorne frowned as Lord Hartmore stepped forward, that indulgent smile back on the man’s face. “Let’s leave the details to be sorted out later,” he said with a marked look at his daughter. “This evening is to be entertaining. Business has no place at a societal ball.” Lord Hartmore spoke the word as though it was something dark, disgusting and repugnant.
Thorne wanted to strangle the man more than anything, but he held himself in check. He was not one to be led astray by his emotions. He knew what needed to be done, and he would see it through. “Of course.” He offered Miss Mortensen his most charming smile; unfortunately, the young lady seemed utterly immune. “May I ask you for the next dance?”
For a moment, Thorne feared Miss Mortensen might faint on the spot. Then, however, she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. “Certainly.” Although she held herself rigid, Thorne could feel her muscles trembling as she accepted his arm. He led her onto the dance floor, asking simple questions, trying his best to set her at ease. Unfortunately, Miss Mortensen’s mind seemed made up. She replied politely, but more often than not, offered him only monosyllabic answers.
Before long, Thorne’s attention shifted from the woman sharing this dance with him to those standing on the fringes, watching them, their faces contorted in disapproval and distaste. Anger stirred within Thorne until his gaze fell upon the golden-haired beauty he had seen earlier.
Indeed, her face, too, was scrunched up in a way that clearly signaled disapproval. Yet her blue eyes shone with a fierceness that spoke of anger. Something protective rested in her gaze, and Thorne realized that she was upset with him for dancing with her friend. Did she know that Lord Hartmore intended to marry his daughter to him? Was that why she was glaring at him, her eyes all but shooting daggers in his direction?
Thorne could not deny that he enjoyed looking at her. She was indeed beautiful, but it was the wild look in her gaze, that unimpressed way she regarded him, that made him want to know her, know who she was. Yes, she was a woman worth knowing. Thorne was certain of it for she would not cower or drop her gaze. No, she faced him with open eyes and a lifted chin. Thorne realized he would have liked such a wife. Indeed, if he had the choice, if there was any chance of her accepting him, he would have proposed to her, his golden-haired fury, this very moment.
But it was not to be. He needed to remember why he was here. He needed to do what was right. He needed to protect his people, all those who had no one who spoke for them.
No one but him.
And he would not fail.