He supposed that if he were a gentleman, he would feel guilty too. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. He had never promised a damned thing to Laetitia Rainsford. In fact, they had never even spoken in private, other than two encounters in Kensington Gardens, and a carriage ride. Every time he came close to her, she shied away.
Even if he hadn’t met India, he would have been reconsidering that union, because Lala’s mother wasn’t merely unpleasant; she was loathsome. He didn’t want his children to have a grandmother like that. Besides, he was only one bawdy joke away from Lady Rainsford’s rejection of his proposal.
No, he didn’t feel guilty. And if India felt guilty, she could find a different husband for Lala. Hell, he’d be happy to supply a dowry. There was no question that India would be as talented at matchmaking as she was at organizing.
He went upstairs to bathe, still thinking hard. Being married to India would be like trying to harness a storm at sea. She was one of the few people in the world who had no fear of him, a woman who whipped around to face him, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, and told him exactly what she thought.
He grinned at the thought of it.
“Cravat, sir?” his valet offered. Thorn nodded. He might as well dress properly when asking a lady to marry him. She wanted a proper proposal; he could do that.
He planned to kiss her before uttering a word, though. If he merely touched her arm, a little shudder would go through her body. Her eyes would darken, and her tongue would touch her lips, preparing for him. And after he raised his mouth, she would cling to him, her eyes hazy.
If he kissed her before proposing, she wouldn’t have the willpower to resist him.
With that thought, he glanced down and wrenched off the coat he had just put on. “I’ll wear the dark blue one instead,” he told his valet. It was longer and would cover what needed to be covered. She wasn’t the only one caught in a sea storm, after all. He only had to glance at her, or realize she was in a room, and his prick would rise. And stay up too.
She did something to him, something that eroded his control and turned him into a frenzied brute with one idea in mind. He quickly buttoned the longer coat before his valet could reach out to help.
There was a scratch on the door and his valet opened it. A footman held out a small silver tray. “A letter for Mr. Dautry.”
Thorn held out his hand, recognizing India’s handwriting. It was bold and delicate at the same time, ornate and yet easily legible. Very like India herself.
Dear Mr. Dautry,
I did not want to lose any time in informing you that the event about which we both felt concern has not come to pass. I trust you can find another use for the special license.
With all best wishes,
Lady Xenobia
He stared at the sheet for a moment before realizing that it didn’t make a damned bit of difference. India wasn’t pregnant this time, but she would be the next, or the time after that.
If he had to pull her into that alcove and take her again sans sheath, he would. In fact, he would do it without hesitation. Obviously, she was upset by his mutton-fisted proposal, and she’d come up with a deception in order to put him off. He had to make it clear immediately that he saw through her ploy and wanted her for herself, not for the baby who didn’t exist.
He ran his fingers through his hair and walked from the room to look for her. She wasn’t in her chamber, so he went downstairs.
She was in neither of the drawing rooms, nor in the ballroom, dining room, or breakfast room. Where the hell was she?
He was heading toward the servants’ door to see if she was counting the soup spoons when he heard a raised voice outside the house, unmistakably the arrogant tenor of Lady Rainsford.
He followed the clamor to the front door, from which position he could see the lady in question standing in the drive, holding forth to an audience made up of Fleming, at the top of the steps, and his father, stepmother, and Vander at the bottom.
Just then his father shifted to one side, revealing two more characters in this little drama: India was there too, her face defiant, holding Rose tightly to her side.
“I know evidence of depravity when I see it,” Lady Rainsford was saying, her voice shriller than usual.
Damnation. He ran down the steps. Eleanor reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Stay calm,” she said in a low voice.
Lady Rainsford’s raisin-sized eyes narrowed at his approach. “There he is! I suppose you hoped to conceal this child, Mr. Dautry? The evidence of your debased and corrupt nature!”
India watched Thorn approach with an overwhelming sense of dread. She had dealt with every sort of household crisis; she had soothed women driven to hysterics by their husbands, servants, and children.
But it was all different when the tempest resulted from a decision she had made; after all, she had suggested Thorn keep Rose hidden away. The dower house had been her idea. She felt paralyzed, as if she had somehow found herself on a public stage without being told her lines.
“You invited me and my daughter here under a pretense!” Lady Rainsford screeched. “Had I not uncovered your shame, my daughter might have married you and been ruined—utterly ruined. How long did you think to disguise the presence of your by-blow?”
“I am not Rose’s father,” Thorn stated. The look in his eyes made India shiver.
Lady Rainsford seemed unaffected. “Poppycock! She was tucked away in a separate house, just as my maid informed me this morning. I could scarcely believe it myself, but here she is. If this child of shame were truly your ward, there would be no need to conceal her existence. I think we can all agree to that!”
India felt another pulse of guilt; she should have guessed that Lady Rainsford would employ her maid as a spy. Then she felt Rose’s thin shoulders trembling under her hands, and her guilt was replaced by outrage.
How dare the woman say such things in front of a child? She was despicable. She had to be silenced.
Lady Rainsford moved to a new target, the Duke of Villiers. “And you! I suppose you were applauding your son’s attempt to dupe those of us who take marriage vows seriously. Is Christian morality a mere jest to you, Your Grace?” The last two words were not meant as a title of respect.
The duke didn’t speak, but his expression was terrifying. He stepped forward, and India could tell that his intervention would only make the situation worse.
“This has nothing to do with Mr. Dautry,” she cried, cutting off Villiers before he could reply or, worse, throw Lady Rainsford into the nearest hedge. The duke ignored her, moving forward like a predator.
Lady Rainsford merely snorted, her eyes returning to the little girl trembling under India’s fingers. “She’s the image of her father, and I don’t mean that as a compliment.”
Utter fury ripped up India’s spine. “You are a vile woman,” she snapped, “as are your disgraceful allegations. Rose is my daughter, and no concern of yours!”
She scarcely believed that she had blurted out those words, even as they came from her mouth. But silence fell.
Blessedly, silence fell.
Lady Rainsford’s expression was incredulous. “She is your child?”
India drew a deep, stunned breath. There was no turning back now. “Yes,” she said defiantly. “Mine. You should cease your unpleasant insinuations, Lady Rainsford. Mr. Dautry is innocent of your charges.” She pulled Rose even closer.
“I always knew you were no better than you should be!” the lady said, her mouth twisting with distaste. “People driveled on about how wonderful you were, but there were those of us who knew that only a light-skirt would accept money from a man. The way you moved from household to household, I wonder if you even know the father’s name!”
Her words struck with the bitterness of a poisoned dagger. In that instant, India grasped what her hasty remark would mean for herself, for her own reputation. Her heart dropped to her feet. Would she never learn to think before she spoke?
Thorn took a s
tep toward Lady Rainsford, the rage in his eyes controlled but savage. “I want you out of my house within the hour.”
“I surmise that you are indeed the father,” the lady snapped, “since you protect this fallen woman!”
With one impulsive comment, India had destroyed years of guarding her reputation. Lady Rainsford would spread her malice across all London. Thank goodness, Adelaide had retired to her room for a rest. Not that it mattered.
She was ruined. Utterly ruined.
She swallowed hard; it felt as if a giant hand had just squeezed her heart. Any chance she had of making a life with Thorn was over. He, more than anyone, couldn’t marry a ruined woman; their children would be pariahs after Lady Rainsford spread her malicious story.
But suddenly, unexpectedly, Vander, who had been standing silently beside her, wrapped his right arm around her shoulder. “Lady Rainsford,” he said in the frosty voice of an insulted nobleman, “I should be very careful about what you say next. You are speaking about my wife.”
India started, but Vander tightened his arm in a silent warning.
“Rose is my daughter,” he continued, his voice dropping into the register of a civilized but homicidal maniac. “We have chosen not to reveal our marriage because of my father’s unfortunate circumstance.”
His large body warmed India’s back, for all the world as if they were truly a family. Her mind whirling, India numbly registered that the Duke of Pindar’s confinement owing to insanity was scarcely a plausible reason for a clandestine marriage.
But Vander hadn’t finished. “If you again insult my wife—the woman who will someday be the Duchess of Pindar—I will have you thrown out of society, Lady Rainsford. Do not doubt it.”
Another stunned silence shuddered through the air.
“I am finding this so enjoyable,” the Duke of Villiers said, his smoky voice completely unamused. “All this drama, and we weren’t even charged admission. Surely, this is my cue? Lady Rainsford, I see no reason to wait for a further insult. I intend to make certain that you are never invited to another event in the rest of your natural life. I believe that it will be one of the few good deeds I’ve done in a misspent life.”
Lady Rainsford took in a harsh breath. Her eyes popped out a little so she looked like an angry frog as she looked from Vander, to the duke, to Rose. Finally back to India, standing in the shelter of Vander’s arm. “I don’t believe it!” she shrilled. She was clearly too beside herself to consider her family’s place in society.
“I will hardly produce my marriage lines for one such as you,” Vander said with contempt.
Faced by the united front of two ducal families—and the prospect that she had grievously insulted the future Duchess of Pindar—Lady Rainsford exhibited a fledgling instinct for self-preservation and commenced a babbling apology.
A moment later she faltered to a halt, confronted with five pairs of icy-cold, unsympathetic eyes.
Eleanor stepped forward, taking advantage of her silence. “Lady Rainsford,” she said, her tone grimmer than India had ever heard it. “You will no longer be welcome at any event at which you might reasonably expect a member of the family of the Duke of Villiers or of the Duke of Pindar to appear.”
Lady Rainsford opened her mouth, but Eleanor held up her hand. “If the slightest rumor ever emerges regarding Lady Xenobia or Miss Rose—as well as your vile and sordid accusations—we will not only put it about that you are stark raving mad, Lady Rainsford, but I will also allow my husband to wreck havoc on your finances. You and your husband will retire to the country in abject poverty. Your maid will do no more spying, because you will not be able to afford her. Have I made myself absolutely clear?”
“Yes,” Lady Rainsford said, with an audible gulp.
“You forgot ‘Your Grace,’ ” Villiers stated, his voice a cutting blade that made it clear that the woman should address his wife as would a servant, not an equal.
“I think . . . I think I shall look for my daughter.” Lady Rainsford scurried up the stairs and back into the house without another word.
Chapter Thirty
Five adults and one child kept silent until Lady Rainsford rushed through the front door past Fleming, who had ensured that no other servants had witnessed the scene.
Rose spoke before anyone else. “I am not your child!” she cried, looking up at India. “I don’t like that woman.” Her little face crumpled, but she managed to halt the tears. “I don’t like the way people keep speaking as if my father didn’t exist. My father was Will Summers, and just because he is dead doesn’t mean that he didn’t exist!”
Then she twisted out of India’s hold, taking a step toward Thorn. “You shouldn’t give me away like that,” she cried, her voice rising. “I don’t want to be their daughter. I don’t even know them!”
For his part Thorn was in the grip of a rage that was only barely in check. What was India doing, declaring that Rose was her daughter? And Vander? Why in the hell had Vander made the claim that he was married to India?
India was his. Not Vander’s.
She would never be Vander’s.
But he looked down at Rose and realized all that would have to wait, because Rose was his as well. She was the bravest little girl he’d ever known, but her lips were quivering and her eyes were terrified. Almost certainly Lady Rainsford had called her names before he arrived, ones that she didn’t understand. She had been surrounded by shouting adults—and she thought her guardian had given her away.
He scooped her up into his arms and turned away from the adults silently watching them. “I did not give you away, Rose, and I never will. It was all a misunderstanding.” He began walking toward the dower house. “Let’s go home and we’ll ask Clara for some hot cocoa. Where is Clara, by the way?”
“That lady came and told Clara to stay,” Rose said, a sob breaking from her chest. “She brought me back to the house. But Lady Xenobia came outside just as she arrived, and they had an argument.”
“Did my parents and Vander come at the same time as Lady Xenobia?”
“No, they came just before you. Lady Rainsford is most unpleasant.” Her legs clung to his side, but her rigid backbone told its own story.
“She is not a likable woman,” Thorn observed, in one of the world’s great understatements. He pushed open the door of the dower house. “What you need to know, poppet, is that you are and always will be your papa’s daughter. Did you know that I saved Will’s life once?”
She stirred in his arms, but he didn’t release her. He just strode over to the sofa and sat down, keeping her on his lap. “We were around eight years old. It was winter, and there were ice floes in the Thames.”
“Did you have to go into the icy water?” She sounded slightly less distressed. “Papa told me that he used to fish spoons out of the river.”
He nodded, tightening his arms around her. “If we didn’t jump in ourselves, our master would throw us off the dock.”
“That is a despicable thing to do,” Rose said. Her hand curled around his forearm.
“He was the same sort of person as Lady Rainsford,” Thorn said. “Not someone you would wish to know. The amount of food Grindel gave us depended on what we brought him. Some of the boys were too small and too frail to go into the water when it was icy, so the big boys had to earn food for all of us.”
“Eight years old is not very big,” Rose observed.
“Your papa was the type of boy who never gave up. He dove and dove that afternoon,” he told her. “He was certain that he had felt something at the bottom of the Thames, something big down in the muck. Something that might make Grindel happy enough that he would let us sleep indoors.”
There were no words adequate to describe Grindel. Not for the first time, Thorn wished the man were still alive so he could kill him in memory of the boys who hadn’t survived.
“I wish Papa hadn’t been stubborn,” Rose said. “Did he find that big thing?”
“The last time he went down, he
didn’t come back up. I stood on the dock and watched the spot where he dove, and I didn’t see any bubbles. I didn’t know what to do. The Thames is dark and murky at the best of times, and in the winter, it’s like Hades down there.”
“What’s Hades?”
“A terrible place. A place where a boy might find himself cut to the bone by a piece of metal sunk at the bottom, or he might come face to face with—” He caught himself. “—with a fish.”
“A fish wouldn’t scare me!”
“We were city boys, and we knew very little about fish. For all we knew, they would nibble our toes.”
“Did you jump in after Papa?”
Thorn nodded. “I did. It was so cold that I felt as if the ice were eating my bones. I kept going because Will was down there somewhere. Finally I saw just a flash of his yellow hair, the same hair that you have.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was stuck,” Thorn said. “His foot was caught in a net dropped by a fisherman. I almost didn’t get him out in time, but we managed. And we made it back to the dock.”
The truth was that the Thames had damn well nearly taken both of them that day. He still had no idea how he got Will back to the dock.
“Did you have to sleep in the graveyard that night?” Rose asked. She had forgotten to keep her back stiff, and her cheek nestled against his chest as if she had always been his child.
“We did not. After your father warmed up, he unclenched his fist. And he was holding the top of a silver teapot.”
“You mean that little round piece?”
“Exactly.”
“Was that enough so that all of you could have supper?”
“It was. Grindel let us all sleep inside for the next week, because it kept snowing.”
“It must have been a very costly teapot,” Rose said.
“It had a crest on it, which meant its owners would be grateful to have it back. But the more important point is that Will and I shook hands the next morning, and Will said that he owed me. And that someday he would pay me back by giving me the most valuable thing he owned.”