Three Weeks With Lady X

  At least, that would be India’s summation.

  “I cannot approve of the way Lady Rainsford talks about her own daughter,” Adelaide said to India after everyone else had escaped the table, leaving the two of them. They had all fled back to the drawing room except Thorn, who had taken himself off somewhere, and Lala, who had missed the meal.

  Lady Rainsford had made a point of instructing Fleming not to bring her daughter a plate in her room, saying with a laugh that Lala’s hips were large enough.

  “I can’t stand her,” India said fiercely. “My mother wasn’t perfect when it came to nurturing, Adelaide, but at least she never tried to eat her young.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” Adelaide said. “Somewhat.”

  “Poor Lala wasn’t even in the room to defend herself, and her mother as good as told us that she was eating them out of house and home!”

  “Extremely unkind.”

  “And she said that Mrs. Peters, who everyone knows is grieving the death of her little girl, was being maudlin merely because she wears black and wept on the street.”

  “That was not compassionate,” Adelaide agreed. “I also do not like the way that she looks at you, dear.”

  “She’s decided that I’m a hussy,” India said, not caring at all. Lady Rainsford was right. She’d done naughty things—in a hammock, and in a gatehouse. But rather than being shamed, she felt proud of herself.

  “I shall have to have a word with her,” Adelaide said. “She has single-handedly ruined several reputations, and I’m quite sure she’s noticed that Thorn is in love with you.”

  “What?”

  “Well, he is, darling. As is Lord Brody. Poor Lala doesn’t stand a chance, which may be behind her mother’s irritation.”

  “You are entirely mistaken,” India told her. “Thorn has every intention of marrying Lala.”

  “Reluctantly, I have to agree. I had no idea that Lala was in such desperate straits at home,” Adelaide said. “I know Mr. Dautry prides himself on his lack of gentlemanly characteristics. But in fact, I would judge him one of the most gentlemanly men I’ve had the pleasure to meet.”

  “I agree.”

  “Therefore, he will marry Lala, because it is the most honorable thing to do. And you, my dear, will be very happy with Lord Brody.”

  India swallowed hard. “Of course.”

  “I suspect that Lala and Thorn will not be as happy together. Yet I worry not about them, but about you. This situation is why society puts strictures on people’s behavior.”

  Her godmother drew India to a halt. Everyone had entered the drawing room before them, and the corridor was empty. “A woman gives away her heart along with her virtue,” Adelaide said softly. “A man does not. Society’s strictures protect women’s hearts as well as their reputations.”

  Apparently, India’s fluffy, affectionate godmother grasped a good deal more than she let on. With a kiss Adelaide disappeared into the drawing room, leaving India staring at the wall.

  Surely Adelaide was wrong about Thorn’s marriage to Lala. His childhood had been awful, and he needed sweetness in his life. It wasn’t as if India could give that to him herself. She didn’t have a kind, forgiving nature like Lala’s—obviously, since she was still furious at her parents for their neglect and abandonment.

  And yet she wanted Thorn to choose her, rather than Lala. It wasn’t just his body, or the way they made love. It was the brilliant way he invented things such as the India rubber band, merely because he had bought an ailing factory and needed to save the jobs of twenty-six men.

  It was even the way he had seen who Lala was, when the rest of them—the whole ton—had ignored her. He’d realized that Lala was bright, and that she needed rescuing.

  India couldn’t even put into words the way he was with Rose. It was as if he’d walked straight into being Rose’s father, and the little girl would never know how lucky she was to have had two fathers who loved her, protected her, and treasured her.

  India almost groaned aloud. Adelaide was right. She had forgotten to guard her heart.

  It seemed she’d given it away, without noticing.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  That evening at dinner, Vander lavished attention on India, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She felt listless, as if the world was hurtling on without her. Probably she’d end up married to Vander. And Thorn would marry Lala.

  Obviously, he hadn’t spent the afternoon at his factory, not given the way Lala looked. He must have spent the afternoon with her, and never mind the fact that she was supposedly confined to her room with a headache.

  Right now Lala was sitting at the dining table, rosy and glowing . . . Did she really think that they wouldn’t notice the love bite on her neck? Lala had tucked a fichu into the bodice of her gown, but India wasn’t stupid. She could recognize a woman who had spent the afternoon kissing.

  Or more.

  The worst was that India felt like such a light-skirt, as Adelaide would call it. A slut, to use a baser term. Thorn had spent the afternoon seducing another woman, and she still wanted him.

  Luckily, this evening he wasn’t seated beside her; he was at the head of the table, and she was quite a bit farther down. So far away that she dared to look at him under her lashes.

  She kept meeting his eyes, which was embarrassing. But every time, a stab of lust would go through her and she would shift in her chair, her legs restless. Mortifyingly, he caught her doing it. He knew what she was feeling.

  Once he actually laughed aloud after their eyes met, which made her mind reel.

  Men were incredible. How could he look at her in that way, after spending the afternoon with Lala? You only had to look at her to know that she was in a happy daze, that she felt loved and appreciated.

  India narrowed her eyes at him and then looked to her right, at Vander.

  “Are you sparring with Thorn?” Vander asked.

  “Absolutely not,” India said, taking a swallow of wine. “Though if I could, I would spar with him for having disappeared for hours. It’s hardly the conduct of a good host.”

  Vander’s eyes rested thoughtfully on Lala, and India’s stomach pitched. Of course everyone guessed where their host had been, or at least, what he had been doing.

  “I believe we may be thinking the same thing,” she said, summoning a smile.

  “And that would be?”

  “I expect Thorn has asked Lala to be his wife,” she breathed. “Just look at her.” Lala was absentmindedly lining up her silverware, a little smile playing around her mouth.

  “I’m not convinced,” Vander said, his eyes going to Thorn.

  “She has a mark on her neck.”

  Vander looked back at India, one side of his mouth quirked up, and she felt herself blushing. She probably shouldn’t even know about love bites. “She does look happy,” he agreed.

  Lord Brody was handsome. And he wasn’t baseborn either, though she didn’t give a damn about that. Still, other people did. If her parents were still alive, and if they had cared about such things, they would have preferred she marry Vander.

  He even smelled good, like wind with a touch of rain, probably because he spent most of his time on a horse.

  She made up her mind. She would not humiliate herself by making calf’s eyes at a man who was marrying another woman. Vander was handsome and strong and perfect. She smiled at him. The big smile, the one that Thorn hated.

  Vander didn’t hate it. He smiled back, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in an entirely attractive way. India reached out blindly, picked up her wineglass again, and began to ask Vander about his stables.

  She did not look again at the end of the table. She kept her shoulder turned, as a matter of fact. She held on to her dignity with all the strength she had, and she lavished smiles on Vander.

  He was her future, and Lala was Thorn’s future, and that was that.

  When Eleanor rose, all the ladies rose with her, and the room hummed with quiet
chatter and the swish of gowns brushing the marble floor. “The ladies will join me for tea in the small drawing room,” Eleanor said.

  India had designed it for precisely this purpose. It was a beautiful, feminine space, with clusters of settees and even a game table in the event that someone wanted to play piquet.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Eleanor said cheerfully, taking Adelaide’s arm and ignoring the way Lady Rainsford was hovering, indicating that she would like to stroll beside the duchess.

  India stopped to have a chat with Fleming, who revealed that there hadn’t been quite enough soup spoons, and that the second downstairs maid had tripped on the back stairs and sprained her ankle.

  “She’s a bit clumsy.”

  “She’ll improve,” India said.

  Thorn appeared at Fleming’s shoulder and said, “What in the hell are the two of you discussing?”

  Just like that, India’s heart sped up and began beating loudly in her ears. He was cross again, but that wasn’t what made her pulse race; it was the pure maleness that blazed out of him, even standing as he was in the shadowy corridor, half hidden by his butler.

  “Merely an insufficiency of soup spoons,” she said. “Thank you, Fleming.”

  The butler bowed, giving Thorn a sharp-eyed glance. India wouldn’t be surprised if he knew everything. Butlers always did.

  “You needn’t worry about my soup spoons,” Thorn said, taking a step closer. His jaw was set, and his eyes were saying something . . . she wasn’t quite sure what.

  India was transfixed by his closeness, and it took a moment for his comment to sink in. Of course, she didn’t. He had a wife now. Or as good as one.

  “I understand,” she said, head high. “I will give Lala the direction of the silversmith who created your design.”

  He made a growling sound. “Leave it.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll be joining the ladies.” And she nodded toward the door to the small drawing room.

  But instead of allowing her to pass, Thorn took another step toward her. India reflexively stepped backward, only to discover that he had herded her into a tiny room off the corridor designed to hold footmen’s livery.

  Proper cabinetry had yet to be fitted, and as a temporary measure, India had concealed the alcove with a misty gray hanging. Now the curtain fell closed behind Thorn as he gently pushed her all the way into the tiny room.

  There was scarcely room for both of them, and light filtered dimly through the loose linen weave. She looked up at his scowling eyes and something broke open inside her heart, just a little bit.

  She’d fallen in love with a man with cool gray eyes, the very same color as the fabric at his shoulder. She had created the perfect setting for him without even knowing she was doing it.

  “Thorn,” she said, “I must join the other ladies; they will be wondering what became of me.”

  “You stopped looking at me,” he said, frowning at her.

  “I had no reason to look at your end of the table.”

  He braced one arm on the wall above her head, leaning closer. “You looked at me earlier.” He sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth.

  It was embarrassing to find that the merest glance at his lips made her knees feel weak. But she managed to summon up her self-respect. “You should be spending time with Lala. Go!”

  He paid no attention. “Do you know that most people find me intimidating?”

  Meeting his eyes made India drag in a deep breath and begin to turn sideways, to dart toward freedom. But his body closed in, and his mouth came down on hers. Their kiss was deep and wet—not sweet, but scorching, as if there was no air in the world other than what she took from Thorn’s lips.

  It was silent, this desperate kiss, so insistent that she could actually feel her lips becoming bee-stung. His hand shoved into her hair, and the pins that had held in place a pyramid of elaborate ringlets tinkled to the floor.

  “No,” she gasped. But his mouth found hers again. She hardly registered that she had launched herself away from the wall, and she was now plastered against him, as close as if she were trying to melt into him.

  In fact, she didn’t notice at first when his hands slipped under her skirts. Not until she realized that they were cupping her bottom, hitching her higher and backing her against the wall again. Her legs instinctively curled around his hips as he pushed his pelvis against her, sending flames arcing down her legs.

  She said something in a shamefully weak voice. It might have been “No.” But even worse, it might have been “Yes.”

  Whatever it was, he ignored her. His fingers slipped into the silky tuft of hair between her legs. The moment he touched her, her lips opened in a cry that he caught with his mouth.

  His kiss and caress tumbled her into a haze: her head spun and she couldn’t see or even breathe. She clung to him, his clever, clever fingers igniting a fever in her blood. Need rose in her like a dark storm.

  “No!” she whispered hoarsely, pulling away from his kiss. “You cannot spend the afternoon with Lala and then come to me. You cannot seduce me while you’re betrothed to another.”

  He met her eyes, his face strained with desire but confused. “I am not betrothed to anyone. I have said nothing about marriage to Lala or any other woman.”

  India stared at him. It was hard to think when her body was shaking. His fingers had stilled, but they were still there, touching her. “You’re sure you’re not betrothed? Even informally?”

  He shook his head. His eyes had darkened to the color of a storm over the sea, and his fingers started that caress again, touching her in a teasingly regular pattern that made her body oddly lax and tense all at once.

  As if she was waiting . . . waiting for something.

  “I have spoken to Lala’s father, but given the circumstances of my birth, he declined to consider the matter unless I received Lady Rainsford’s approval. I never asked Lala for her hand.” The words grated from his throat, and India believed him. Whose fault was it that Lala was dreaming about marriage to Thorn? Probably every other woman in London was dreaming about Thorn.

  The thought drifted away, because Thorn lifted her with one arm—her weight seemingly nothing—and unbuttoned his breeches with the other, pulling himself free. She gasped when their bodies came together again, her thighs instinctively tightening around his hips.

  “I did not spend the afternoon with Lala,” he growled at her, his voice jolting, as if he were in a runaway carriage. “I was at the rubber factory, trying to make that damn machine work.”

  “Oh,” India breathed as he nudged her softest, most private spot.

  “May I?” he growled, his eyes holding hers. Her arms tightened around his neck. She could no more say no to him than she could tell the sun not to rise. She wiggled against him at the very same moment he drove into her.

  She would have screamed but his mouth covered hers again, a frantic kiss in time with the rhythm of his rough thrusting. Wild pleasure flared in her limbs as he kept going and going, an arm around her back to protect her from the wall.

  They were both mad, India thought dimly, not really thinking, just feeling: the strength of his arm holding her up, the way they were connected, and the powerful way he was pumping into her, as if she were life.

  And then . . .

  And then she was coming, her head falling backward, her body jerking as if she were falling into a well full of stars, a deep one. The stars flew out to the very end of her fingers. It was so pleasurable that it was almost painful. And it kept going and going.

  Thorn groaned, braced himself against the wall and—

  It was different. It felt different. He was deep inside her, his breath rasping, his hips pumping. His breath was harsh and his control lost.

  He was like a man starving, a man possessed. And with that thought, she was coming again, succumbing to the rhythm of his hips . . . the rhythm of his heart.

  A moment later, India’s breath was still sobbing from her chest; he s
till had an arm around her bottom. But he was leaning his head against the wall, gulping air. They stood together in silence, her body blissful and her mind blank.

  At length, reason returned, bringing abject terror with it.

  “Thorn, you didn’t use a sheath,” India whispered. “You forgot!”

  She heard a sharp inhalation, and then his response, a word she’d never heard before. But she knew what it meant. It meant he dropped her to the floor as fast as a child might drop a cat. Unlike a cat, she landed wrong, lurching on one of her elegant little Italian heels, and managing to stay upright only by grabbing his sleeve.

  He didn’t notice.

  She knew what he was thinking. Now she would force him to marry her. Trap him, and keep him away from sweet, dizzy Lala. She wouldn’t.

  “I have never lost control before,” he growled.

  “I’m certain everything is fine!” she said, chirping like Adelaide. “My mother tried for years to have another child and never succeeded.” She let go of his sleeve and shook down her skirts, ignoring the fact that her legs were throbbing.

  “My father has six bastard children,” he stated. “If my father had married your mother, you’d probably have seventeen brothers.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, frowning. “May I remind you that Eleanor has borne only one child? I am aware that you have strong feelings on this subject, but I can reassure you that all will be well. Adelaide told me . . . well, conception has to do with the time of the month, and rest assured, you are not going to be a father.”

  He stared down at her, his mouth tight.

  Humiliation was welling up inside, and if it made its way out, India would likely burst into tears.

  It was one thing to have a romantic affaire, a sweet memory of a single night’s bliss. But Thorn hadn’t even brought her to a bedchamber, but had simply shoved her behind a curtain and pulled up her skirts, as if she were no more than a night-walker.

  The worst of it was that she’d liked it. She had practically begged him to do it, even knowing that he was marrying another woman. And that Lala was dreaming of their marriage.