Three Weeks With Lady X

  She’d done that to herself, betrayed her own standards. Self-hatred crept up the back of India’s throat like acid.

  She had always scorned her parents, but they had never done anything like this. They had danced naked but their intentions were pure, even if the villagers had never understood. Her mother and father had truly believed in Diana, the moon goddess.

  They hadn’t engaged in a sordid affair, thrown up against a wall when any servant might walk by. They respected each other; no, they adored each other. They might have been eccentric, but they were married.

  For the first time in her life, she had behaved in a way that shamed her parents, rather than the other way around.

  “I must go,” she said. At least she had the tears under control.

  “We have to talk,” Thorn said, his voice a low rumble.

  “We cannot! Anyone might walk down this corridor at any moment!”

  Their eyes met, and she saw as he grasped her unspoken point: her lips were swollen, her hair down her back . . . she even smelled like the two of them. “I am going to my room,” she stated, “and this did not happen. It will never happen again.”

  She jerked her arm from his grip, threw open the curtain, and ran toward the back staircase as quickly as she could. When she made it to her bedchamber without being caught, she had the impulse to send up a thankful prayer to the goddess Diana.

  Just in case.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Thorn felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck a crowded street and he was the only one in its path. Sensation rushed through him: strong, sharp, biting.

  What in the hell was happening to him? Had he truly lost his mind? After India began ignoring him during dinner, there was no further point to the meal. He kept glancing at her, but she turned her shoulder to him, laughing and talking with Vander.

  He had been closer than he wanted to admit to dragging her out from the room, carrying her straight to his bedchamber, and losing himself in her. Only his tight control had kept him in his chair.

  But after dinner, when he’d seen India talking to Fleming, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d treated her as if she were no more than a trull, a woman taken wordlessly by a ruffian who tossed her a sovereign afterwards. Took, moreover, without using a sheath or giving a thought to the consequences.

  Naturally she had looked at him with betrayal starkly written on her face. The first time they’d made love, he had promised that she would never face the possibility of carrying a child out of wedlock.

  Now he slumped against the wall, a string of curses running through his mind. He would marry her; that went without saying.

  But he couldn’t get over the fact that he had neglected to use protection. It hadn’t even occurred to him. Even though it was an unshakable tenet of his adult life that Thorn Dautry never bedded a woman without using a French letter.

  Finally he tucked in his shirt, buttoned his breeches, and went to find Fleming. He needed to obtain a special license.

  Fleming’s bushy eyebrows flew up when Thorn told him to send Fred to Doctors’ Commons in order to request a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  “I believe the fee for a special license is five pounds,” the butler said, taking the twenty-pound note Thorn handed him.

  “The archbishop will have to leave the license blank, since I am not there in person,” Thorn said. “The clergy do not like to do that, by all accounts. Twenty pounds should be sufficient persuasion, proffered as a donation to the poor, of course. Make sure Fred understands that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fleming said, bowing. “Fredrick is most reliable. I shall send him straight away.”

  Thorn nodded and glanced over his butler’s shoulder, only to meet his father’s fascinated eyes. “A special license?” His Grace drawled. “And I thought my eldest son was lamentably conservative. I pictured you in Westminster Abbey. I suppose I should be grateful that you are not contemplating Gretna Green.”

  “The cathedral would never allow me through its doors,” Thorn said.

  “They damned well would take you,” the duke stated, his eyes darkening.

  Thorn hadn’t the energy to discuss the consequences of illegitimacy with his father. He had to find India and inform her that they would marry as soon as the next day. Wasn’t there some rule that nuptials had to be conducted before noon? They could marry the day after tomorrow.

  “May I inquire as to the name of the bride?” his father asked.

  Thorn met his eyes. “I’d be very surprised if you didn’t know.”

  A satisfied smile played around his father’s lips. “I suspect that I do.” He fell back a step and swept one of his magnificent bows. “Son. You do me proud.”

  Thorn made one of his own perfunctory bows in reply.

  Then he retired to his room, brooding over the fact that a blindingly foolish slip would result in marriage to India.

  Which meant, in turn, living with India every day, coming home to the amazing hunger that matched his own. The thought sent fire searing through him. India’s sweet arse beside him in bed, India’s blue eyes glazed with desire, begging him for relief, India’s intoxicating moans.

  He scarcely touched her, and she was already wet. You couldn’t fake that. A woman could fake many things, but not that.

  And he trusted her, as much as he’d trust anyone. He even liked her.

  She was almost like a man, though her mind worked in fascinatingly different ways from his. India rubber bands were going to be an enormous success. He knew it in his bones, and he was never wrong about business.

  After a bath, he dressed and walked down the long corridor to India’s room. He entered without knocking and closed the door behind him.

  She was curled in a chair reading a book, her face bent to the page. A wall lamp cast a glow over her shoulders, turning her hair to a river of white gold.

  With just a glance, he began to harden again, even though he’d just had her, barely an hour ago. Likely their whole life would be like that. He would spend years dragging his wife into corners, into the hammock, into their bedchamber.

  He would never grow tired of making love to India. He knew it instinctively, with every fiber of his being. Once they married, her lush body would be his, his for the taking, for the asking, at any time. What’s more, she would laugh and scold and argue with him.

  Perhaps that was even more important.

  Thorn stood in the doorway, struggling to control the emotions raging through him, when India said, without looking up from her book, “I’d much prefer that you didn’t walk into my bedchamber without invitation. And I have no intention of extending that invitation.”

  She was angry. Of course she was. He had explicitly promised that he would never put her at risk of bearing a child. He still didn’t believe it had happened. At the same time, all he wanted to do was pull her nightdress from her body, sweep her onto the bed, and thrust inside her.

  Without a sheath.

  He had spent his youth learning the intricacies of pleasuring a woman from an assortment of females. He had been with many women, more than he cared to remember, knowing that someday he would bind his wife to him with his lovemaking, satisfying her in ways that would ensure she never left him.

  Or, more to the point, never left their children.

  With India, everything he had learned about slowly bringing a woman to pleasure flew out the window and all he could think of was—one thing.

  “A husband needs no invitation to enter his wife’s bedchamber,” he said, his voice coming out husky and rough. Surely she too understood that they now must marry.

  “What a husband does or doesn’t need is debatable, but it hardly matters in this instance, as you are not my husband,” she said, turning the page. She finally looked up at him. “In case you are wondering, Thorn, you will never be my husband.”

  “Considering the fact that I had you against the wall a mere hour ago, you are quite likely carrying my child
,” he replied, knowing that his voice had dropped an octave.

  Another woman would have winced or been embarrassed. He could have sworn he saw yearning flash through her eyes. But then it was gone; he must have imagined it.

  India’s mouth tightened. “I am not carrying your child.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “No. But I can be reasonably certain.”

  “There is no certainty in these things. I have sent for a special license, and we will be married on the morrow or, at the latest, the day after.”

  She blinked, apparently shocked. Did she think that he would simply saunter away after that?

  Finally she put that damned book to the side and came to her feet. “Thorn, I will not marry a man due to a momentary foolishness. You are essentially promised to Lala. You have spoken to her father, whether he declined to answer or no. She is dreaming of your future life together. The fact that I acted like a whore does not compel you to marry me.”

  He was frozen for a moment, then he found himself standing before her, hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. “Do not ever say something like that about yourself. You are nothing like a whore.”

  India stared back at him, her eyes flat. “Well, it’s true that I didn’t charge you for my services. But I don’t think that Lady Rainsford will care about that distinction.”

  “Lady Rainsford is a monstrous woman,” he bit out.

  “She is your future mother-in-law,” India observed. “Our unfortunate behavior does not and should not compel you to marry me—and neither does it mean that I am compelled to marry you. You appear to have forgotten to propose, but you needn’t bother. My answer is no.”

  Thorn felt astonishment roaring down his spine. “Your answer is yes.”

  “Do not think for a second that you can force me into marriage!”

  India turned blindly away from Thorn’s black expression and walked to the mantel. The truth could not be avoided. He deserved better than she, someone sweet and soft. She swallowed hard.

  And she deserved someone who loved her, not someone forced by his sense of honor to marry her. Tears threatened again, but she managed to choke them down.

  “India,” Thorn said from behind her, the bite in his voice easing.

  She had to cut him off before he persuaded her, because it would only be his conscience talking. She refused to be sacrificed on the altar of any man’s conscience.

  Not when it would change the course of her whole life. Not . . . not loving him the way she loved him, especially if he grew to hate her because he lost his “ideal” wife.

  He would hate her, if not now, then later, after the pleasure of illicit encounters in hallways had worn off. She would rather die than live that way.

  “At any rate,” she said, steeling her voice. “I’ve changed my mind. I am not giving up my profession. I have decided to accept an offer from the Prince of Wales; I shall renovate his private quarters at the Royal Pavilion in Brighton.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You will not go anywhere near that fat lecher’s chambers.”

  She gripped the mantelpiece, using it to keep herself upright as she turned to face him again. “I shall go where I wish. And I would be daft not to accept the job. Perhaps after that, I shall marry—but never because of a moment’s indiscretion. My parents were neglectful, as you know. But they loved each other. I didn’t realize until recently how important that was, and I shall certainly not marry a man who doesn’t even think he has to propose.”

  “I would have proposed.” It looked as if his lips were scarcely moving.

  “When? After we were married? You walked into this room and informed me that you had sent for a special license. Acceptance on my part had nothing to do with it. You felt that there was no reason to ask me, because our marriage wouldn’t have been about us. It would be about the possibility of a child.”

  He didn’t deny it. She hated that his tacit agreement hurt.

  “Please leave,” she said.

  Thorn was staring at the carpet, but after a moment, he looked up, his eyes burning with frustration. “You will not defy me in this, India. Our irresponsible actions have left us with no alternative. Regardless of what you say, you cannot deny the possibility that we conceived a child.”

  That, more than anything, demonstrated that he didn’t love her. To him, she was no more than a woman who engaged in irresponsible behavior. A sob nearly forced itself from her throat before she choked it back.

  There was only one thing that would stop Thorn from marrying her, she knew. She would have to say it. That horrible thing.

  “You are doing this because of the possibility of a child. As I have told you, I am quite certain that there is no child. But if there is”—She hesitated, her heart beating so hard that she felt faint.—“I will do as your mother did.”

  She saw the blood drain from his face. “Are you saying that you will leave the child to me, just as my mother left me with my father?” he asked incredulously.

  She nodded jerkily, uncertain whether her expression betrayed the truth of how utterly an action like that would destroy her. Surely he wouldn’t believe her capable of that.

  But no, she could read condemnation in his face. He knew her no better than did Lord Dibbleshire. Like his lordship, Thorn accepted whatever she said.

  He would hate her now, she understood that. But it had to be.

  “I am sure that you will be an excellent father,” she said, forcing the words out of her mouth. “Rose adores you.”

  Thorn’s gaze burned into her. “You love Rose, although you’ve met her only a few times. You would never leave a child, your own child. You are lying.”

  “I assure you that I am not.” She almost turned away again, but she straightened her backbone instead. “You do not know me, Thorn, nor do you love me,” she said, letting go of the mantel and standing tall, hating that she had to swim in such selfish, shallow waters to accomplish what had to be done. “I have earned the right to marry someone who loves me. I deserve a man who treasures me.”

  “I treasure you!” His voice was sharp.

  Like a flash fire in a poorly run kitchen, fury and anger and utter despair raced through her. “You made love to me without protection! You made love to me virtually in front of the woman you plan to marry, and where any servant might have happened by. You do not treasure me!” There was a moment’s silence while she pulled her crumbling self together again. “It is not entirely your fault. I have repeatedly made stupid choices.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Did I really seem experienced to you?” She whispered those words because they were burning in the back of her throat. “Did I truly?”

  He swallowed, and she saw his throat ripple. “You were a virgin?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “There was no blood.”

  “I bled for two days after the first time I rode a horse without a saddle. I was twelve.”

  “You lied to me?”

  She felt her mouth curl into an ironic smile. “I wanted you. And you would not have . . . have taken me if you thought me experienced, would you?”

  His silence was the answer.

  “You see,” she continued steadily, “I wanted you enough to lie to you. But I would like to marry someone who knows me. Who loves me. A man who does not barge into my room and make demands of me or, for that matter, tup me against the wall.”

  “So you’ll take Vander?” His voice was a growl, but his eyes were direct.

  She raised her chin. “Perhaps.”

  “He doesn’t love you.”

  “Doesn’t he?”

  “He wants you! That’s not the same as loving you.”

  She had to swallow and clench her teeth in order to keep from crying. She nodded. “I know that. After all, you and I wanted each other. And look where that got me. Please leave, Thorn.”

  Her throat closed, and she really couldn’t say anything else. It was
just as well that he dragged his hand through his hair, raked her with another furious glance, and left without a word.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Thorn avoided India the following day by spending most of it working in his library; he even took luncheon there. “Working” was not precisely accurate: he kept losing himself in thought, staring blindly at the desk as ink blotted whatever letter he was trying to write.

  He could scarcely believe India’s claim that she would give up her child. And yet, every time he decided it had to be a lie, her greatest lie . . . his common sense, his reason, his understanding of the world, sent him reeling back the other direction, toward believing that she told the truth.

  India was evidently a version of his mother: a woman who sampled erotic pleasures and moved on, leaving a child behind in the dust caused by her departure. Like India, she’d had a profession that defined her. That she loved. They were both brilliant, creative women who put their professions before their personal lives.

  And yet . . .

  He thought of the conversation during which India had told him of her parents’ leaving for London. The way she had wept on his shoulder, her shuddering sobs telling him that she’d never revealed that pain before.

  Thorn knew how it felt to be abandoned, whether unthinkingly, as his father had done to him, or selfishly, as his mother had. A woman marked by that pain would never—could never—give away her baby.

  He simply did not believe it. By the time the afternoon was drawing to a close, he was convinced India had lied to him. He had gone over every minute, every second of the time they’d spent together, reviewed every word they’d exchanged, her every glance.

  And he’d thought through their conversation of the night before. She believed he wanted to marry her only because of the child they might have conceived. Perhaps she truly believed that he would be happier married to Lala. Certainly, she felt guilty because Lala was wandering around looking like a dazed lamb in love.