Three Weeks With Lady X (18 page)

“Because you are who you are,” he said, smiling even though she had her cheek pressed to his shoulder and couldn’t see his face. India hadn’t the faintest idea how many people loved her, from her parents to Adelaide, to her workmen, to all those men who had asked her to marry them. . . .

“They shouldn’t have!” she snapped, sounding more like herself. “They should have woken me and told me where they were going.”

“Very true.”

“I cannot believe I told you all that,” she said, sighing and straightening up. “I’ve never mentioned it before. It seems disloyal to their memory.”

“Given what is already known about your father, I doubt that anyone would offer praise of his parenting skills,” Thorn said dryly. “I take it the jewels were not found on their bodies or in the carriage?”

She shook her head.

“You never told your godmother? No one instituted a search for the jewelry?”

“No.”

Thorn’s disbelief must have shown in his face.

“Adelaide was wracked with guilt after my parents’ death,” India said defensively. “Because she hadn’t visited in more than a decade, she had no idea about the state of our house.”

“It wouldn’t have taken much to hire a Bow Street Runner to look into the matter,” Thorn pointed out, making a mental note to do just that himself. If the Runner found nothing to report, India need never know.

“My godmother lives in a cheerful world. She works hard to keep it that way. And she deserves it, because her marriage wasn’t very happy.”

Thorn was on the verge of saying something extremely impolitic about godmothers who didn’t protect their godchildren, when India gently pushed away his arm and rose to her feet.

“I must wash my face before Rose returns.” But she turned around at the door and gave him one of her smiles, the kind that shone from her eyes. “You’re such a good friend, Thorn,” she said. “Thank you.”

She left him thinking about the ways he wasn’t a good friend.

Not at all.

Upstairs, India stared at herself in the glass. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes were swollen, and her throat felt scratchy from all that crying, but all the same . . . she felt a weight had lifted. It was stupid, but it was a relief to have told Thorn. The cold, squeezed part of her heart had eased.

He made her feel warm and safe for the first time in years. Years and years.

Rose was back in the sitting room by the time India returned. “I must leave you both,” India said. “Fleming will wish to consult with me before the duke and duchess arrive tomorrow.”

Rose looked a little disappointed, but she hopped to her feet and dropped a curtsy. India knelt down in front of her. “You do understand why you must stay in this little house, don’t you?”

“It would be disadvantageous for Mr. Dautry’s plans to marry Miss Rainsford if her mother believed I was a child born out of wedlock. So I shall stay out of sight.”

“You’re very gracious,” India said, putting a hand lightly on Rose’s head.

“I met Miss Rainsford,” Rose said.

“She is a charming young woman,” India replied.

“She told me that she doesn’t care to read.”

India paused, then rallied. “Then you can read
to
her, just as you read to Antigone. I think you’ll be comfortable here. I shall stop by every day and see if there’s something I can bring you and Antigone.”

“Mr. Twink and I are working on English grammar, because he says it’s important to learn that before turning to Greek,” Rose reported.

India felt a little pulse of jealousy, which was entirely absurd.

She glanced over Rose’s head. “Thorn, will you return to the house before supper?”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay with Rose as long as I can, if only to make sure that Twink doesn’t drown her in past participles.”

India had no idea what those were, so she merely nodded.

“Don’t forget to hunt out a better gown for tomorrow, India,” he ordered.

She rolled her eyes.

“I think Lady Xenobia looks quite nice,” Rose said.

“She looks like a nice nun,” Thorn said. “She needs to go a different direction in order to catch Vander.”

“Why do you sometimes call each other India and Thorn, and other times, Lady Xenobia and Mr. Dautry?” Rose demanded. “It isn’t proper.”

“We’re quite good friends,” Thorn said easily. “The best of friends, in truth.”

India felt a wobbly smile on her mouth. He was right, of course. She had no other friend like him in the world.

“ ‘Informality is the vice of the masses,’ ” Rose announced.

“Hell’s bells, who told you that?” Thorn asked.

“My former tutor, Mr. Pancras,” Rose said.

Thorn snorted. “That man is quickly becoming my worst enemy.”

“If people call me Rose, and you Thorn, then we are Rose and Thorn.” The child curled her lip in disdain. “I prefer Mr. Dautry. It’s far more dignified.”

India smiled at her. “I like Rose and Thorn.”

“I do not agree,” Rose replied, quite politely. “But I realize that I am too young to be heard on the subject.”

At that, Thorn burst out laughing, and India slipped out of the house while he was tickling his ward.

Chapter Eighteen

L
ate that afternoon, India finished the final preparations for the arrival of the guests. The Duke and Duchess of Villiers were due to arrive in the morning, with Lord Brody, Lady Rainsford, and Laetitia following in the afternoon or early evening. It seemed that Lord Rainsford would not come at all; Adelaide had discreetly confirmed that the lord and lady were only rarely to be found under the same roof.

All chambers were aired and ready; flowers would be placed in each room first thing in the morning. Between India, Fleming, and the housekeeper, they had planned the week like a military operation.

“The duchess will serve as Mr. Dautry’s hostess,” India reminded Fleming, checking through a list of wines that would be offered.

“Yes, my lady,” the butler said.

“I suppose there will be any number of crises, and you may come to me if you must. But please make sure that the other guests don’t know, Fleming.”

“Absolutely not, my lady. Lady Adelaide will take supper in her room again tonight,” Fleming informed her.

India’s exhaustion fell away. That meant she and Thorn would dine alone, without a chaperone. Adelaide’s conclusion that the two of them needed no chaperoning was erroneous, but India had not objected.

Beginning tomorrow, there would be no more kissing—or, for that matter, weeping—in Thorn’s arms. Once Lala entered the house, India would revert to being merely a family friend.

But for tonight . . . a prickling excitement rushed over her. Thinking about the moment when Thorn had caught her up and taken her mouth without even asking sent a wash of heat down her legs.

Neither of them was betrothed. Yet. Tonight, no matter how improper, they could still kiss. She started up the stairs with unbecoming haste and forced herself to slow down. When Marie arrived, she requested a bath. She stayed in the bath a good ten minutes longer than she wished, because the only thing she really wanted was to rush downstairs and find Thorn.

To talk to him.

Or, perhaps, not to talk.

By all rights, she should wear a simple gown to supper and save her more seductive clothing for the arrival of Lord Brody. But instead, she put on her most becoming gown. It was the color of the pearly inside of a seashell, with a low drawstring bodice and a light overskirt of loosely woven linen that pulled away in front.

She felt naughty in it. Not prudish or old-maidish.

Marie helped her put on a pair of slippers whose heels would put her head just at Thorn’s shoulder. At last India descended, telling herself that she would allow a single kiss. Or maybe two kisses. But no more.

Fleming stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Lady Xenobia,” he said, bowing. “Mr. Dautry is waiting for you just outside.” He pushed the front door open for her.

Of course. They would eat in the dower house with Rose. There would be no kisses. It was silly that India felt such a crushing sense of disappointment.

Thorn was leaning against the stone lion at the edge of the drive, waiting for her. “Rose is surrounded by paper dolls,” he said once she joined him. “I have been informed that my presence is neither required nor particularly desired.”

“I thought we would dine with her,” India said.

He took her arm, and they began walking not toward the dower house but in the other direction altogether, away from the house and down the hill. “Clara has a dab hand with a pair of scissors, and Rose is happy,” he said. “I thought that perhaps in all your frenzied attention to Starberry Court you missed the fishing hole.”

“I do not care for fishing,” India said, “particularly not when I’m wearing one of my favorite gowns.”

“We shan’t actually fish,” Thorn said, looking surprised. “I don’t even own a pole.”

“And this is most improper,” India added.

“I thought we put that nonsense away, at least between ourselves.”

“You don’t understand. The house is full of servants now. We could truly be compromised if anyone saw us by ourselves at dusk.”

He kept walking, drawing her forward. “Who would see us?”

“Any of the servants—and gossip of that nature would spread like fire through London. My reputation would be ruined. In fact, we must return to the house immediately.”

Thorn just grinned. “Don’t worry. I would tell Vander that nothing happened between us.”

“It’s not just that,” she said, trying to explain in a way he would understand. “My life—any lady’s life—is made up of morning calls, and musicales, and balls. I would be thrown out of society. No one would receive me or send invitations. That’s what it means to be ruined.”

They reached the bottom of the hill. “The life you describe sounds damned tedious. I can’t picture you just going to balls and making calls, India.”

She smiled wryly. “I have trouble imagining it myself.”

“Hell, I should ruin you just so you don’t get caught in such a boring life. It would be my good deed for the year.” He pulled her around and his mouth was on hers—not coaxing, as when they’d first kissed, but hot and demanding. This time his mouth was a burning command, a direct order that she relinquish all control.

India opened her mouth to him without hesitation, aware that her body had been longing for his taste and his touch, aware that she instantly started shaking, just a little. Aware that her arms wrapped around his neck as if she were drowning and only he could save her.

When he pulled her even tighter, she cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth. His leg pushed forward, between hers, and she ground against him, electrified.

There was a rough groan and a curse, and Thorn snatched her up, took one long stride, and released her. India shrieked and fell, landing not on the hard ground but on a stretch of canvas suspended in midair.

“It’s a hammock,” he said, laughing down at her. “Haven’t you ever been in a hammock?”

She looked up at the ropes that held the canvas above the ground. “No! We can’t do this. I need to—”

Thorn lay down beside her in a practiced gesture that revealed he’d spent night after night in hammocks.

“Is this what mudlarks sleep in?” she whispered, hardly able to shape the words because of the searing heat of his body settling against hers.

He shook his head, dusted her mouth with his. “We slept on the ground between graves, in the churchyard. Nice and quiet there.”

“When were you in a hammock?”

“Aboard ship,” he said. “I made one voyage with the East India Company.”

She meant to ask something else, but his hand had cupped her head, just enough to turn it to his mouth. And after she fell into the potency and storm of his kiss, that hand moved. . . .

It trailed along her throat, a caress that seemed almost innocent. India squirmed closer to him, her arms pulling him on top of her, parts of her hungry in a way she’d never imagined.

But she couldn’t think about it, because their kiss was wet and hot, and so fierce that her head tilted back and the hammock enveloped them and pushed their bodies together, as close as the satyr and his lover.

Thorn’s hand drifted below her neck, and a sound broke from India’s throat as his touch rounded the curve of her breast. She tore her mouth from his, an involuntary cry floating into the air.

He muttered a curse and his mouth covered hers, just as his thumb rubbed across her nipple, sending a streak of golden fire through her. India’s cry was swallowed by his kiss. Not that she consciously realized it, because she could only think about his hard, warm body pushing against hers as she arched shamelessly toward him.

When Thorn gave her breast another rough caress, India’s heart stopped beating for a moment. When it started again, it was racing. She bent one of her knees and pushed it between his thighs, and this time the groan was
his
.

“I want . . .” she whispered, breaking off. But the raw words came from her throat, willy-nilly. “You and I.”

He was tugging gently at her bodice, which gave way instantly. He lowered his head again and kissed her collarbone. India felt a shiver rock her entire being as she waited for his lips to drift lower.

“You and me,” she corrected herself, letting her fingers slide through his hair, thick and soft and far too long for a gentleman. She loved that he wasn’t a gentleman. No gentleman would topple her into an open-air ship-bed, kissing her so intimately where anyone might see them.

Her fingers trailed down his neck, drifting out to caress his shoulders. Thorn let out a husky groan at her touch. The only other sounds were the sleepy grumble of the river and the songs of nesting birds.

No one would know. No one would hear. She tried to pull his head down to kiss him again, but he pushed up on one arm, steady in the hammock even as it rocked.

“There is no
you and me,
” he stated.

“There’s you and me in this hammock,” she returned. And she moved her leg to touch that hot, vital part of him. At her touch, she saw darkness in his eyes, like the madness in her blood. “Please, Thorn.
Please
.”

He leaned closer and said against her lips, “What are you asking for, India?”

The hammock was swaying, and with it, his body against hers. The muscles in his shoulder rolled under her fingertips, the fine linen of his shirt sliding over his skin.

His lips opened against hers, and again his hand rounded her breast and put delicious pressure on her nipple. India clung to him, her belly strangely hot, her legs trembling.

She liked the feeling.

Very much.

When Thorn raised his head again, she saw a flare of wildness in his eyes.

“I want all of it,” she said, and gasped, because his fingers were skimming her side, the intimacy of that touch undeniable. “You and me.” She blinked. “I mean, you and I.”

Thorn had pulled aside her bodice again, his mouth descending to her breast. She arched her back and moaned. “I need. . . . Oh Thorn, I need . . .”

He moved to the other breast, and she lost control of whatever it was she had meant to say. One of his hands was sweeping up one of her legs, leaving raw hunger in its wake. The fever swept over her again: she wanted his taste, his smell, his consuming, ravishing kiss.

A foggy thought occurred to her: if she was going to play the trollop, she might as well
do
that. She let her leg fall open, inviting his caress.

Thorn’s teeth grazed her nipple and at the same moment his fingers curved inward. She was writhing against him, words flowing out of her mouth, an endless stream of pleas that would have embarrassed her except . . .

They didn’t.

It felt right. Like a natural thing, like the right thing. “I know you’re a gentleman under the skin, for all you say to the contrary.” The words caught in her throat. “But I’m asking you, Thorn. I’m—”

“What are you asking me for?”

He was looking down at her seriously, as if one hand wasn’t resting on the soft skin of her inner thigh. Her body was frozen, waiting for those fingers to inch higher.

“A gentleman would stop now,” she said, daring him.

His fingers drifted another inch, stopped again. The feeling raged through her, and she trembled from head to foot.

“A man who didn’t care about society would continue, because the woman in his arms was—was agreeable,” she whispered.

A dusky chuckle drifted into the air. “ ‘Agreeable’?”

His fingers drifted again, and the air whooshed from her lungs. “Please,” she said, her voice a thread of sound. She hated whispering. She just couldn’t seem to find the breath to make a forceful demand.

“Be sure of what you ask for,” Thorn said, his voice dark. “If you continue to beg me, India, I
will
seduce you, and I won’t be sorry. But I won’t marry you simply because my cock has been inside you.”

India’s heart quickened at his words, although she should have been outraged that anyone would say such a vulgar thing to her. But she wasn’t outraged. She was exhilarated.

“I do not want to marry you,” she said, being as clear as she could. She had managed to tug his shirt free, and the warm, sleek skin of his back was under her fingers. “I don’t even like you very much.”

“I like you,” he muttered against her lips. “But I have as good as committed myself to marry another.”

India was tired of talking about marriage, or indeed of talking at all. She wiggled down, which made the hammock sway, just enough so that her face was under his. “I want to do all the things in that book.”

His mouth quirked, even though his eyes were hungry. “
All
of them?”

She thought about it for a second, and nodded. “Except the one with two women. I’m not interested in that.”

“Damn,” he muttered, but she saw laughter in his eyes.

“You taught me how to kiss, and that didn’t make me want to marry you. Now you can teach me this,” she said, feeling as if she were about to jump out of her skin. “If you won’t, just tell me, because—”

The fierce look he gave her made the words catch in her throat. “Because what?”

“Because I’ll find another man who’s not a gentleman,” India said, not letting him intimidate her.

“You’d find another man,” he said, slowly and ominously.

Though he looked as if he were about to pounce on her, India didn’t flinch. Thorn liked to boast that he wasn’t a gentleman, but he was about to behave like one. He was going to refuse her. He wouldn’t take a lady’s dearest possession, her virtue.

She slid her palms up his back, under his shirt, and announced, “I am not a virgin.” She was whispering again, but really, how could a woman say such an outrageous thing, other than in a whisper?

She wasn’t accustomed to lying, and it was surprisingly difficult to lie to Thorn.

He stared down at her silently for a few long minutes, and at last said, “Do I have to find some scoundrel and kill him for taking you without your permission?”

She shook her head. Something imperceptible changed in the air around them. He shifted his weight, just slightly, but it was so delicious that a shudder coursed through her.

“I will not do this in a hammock,” he stated. His mouth drifted across her cheekbone and she felt the heated touch of his tongue.