Three Weeks With Lady X

“I shall not marry Laetitia. I had already made up my mind about that.”

Rose nodded and began pleating his cravat with her small, nimble fingers. “Miss Rainsford wouldn’t have been able to read me bedtime stories.”

“Laetitia is quite intelligent,” Thorn said, stroking Rose’s hair. “I think she can’t see letters well enough. She probably needs spectacles.”

“Does that mean that Lady Xenobia isn’t really married to Lord Brody either?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lady Xenobia can read.” The words hung in the air for a moment.

“That is true.” Thorn thought about India’s flamelike intelligence, the brilliant way she assessed problems before moving decisively to solve them.

Although he wished she hadn’t stepped forward and claimed to be Rose’s mother. She had made matters infinitely more difficult, though her claim was nothing compared to Vander’s. After all, once India and Thorn married, Rose truly would be her daughter. But she would never be Vander’s wife.

Rose dropped his cravat, hopped from his lap, and ran over to where her doll lay. “Will you tell Antigone and me stories about my papa over supper? Please?”

Thorn wanted to go to India immediately. He had to inform her that they were getting married, and to hell with what Lady Rainsford would think—though he was fairly certain the woman would never breathe a word about the afternoon. His father would ruin the Rainsford family without a second’s thought, and obviously she had understood that.

But Rose was at his side, Antigone clutched in her arms, her tears hardly dry. India would still be there after Rose went to sleep.

“Please?”

“Yes,” he said, standing up and taking her hand. “Shall we find Clara now?”

“You won’t leave while she is getting me ready for bed?”

That was just what Thorn had thought to do. He was desperate to find India and make love to her, this time as his affianced wife.

But Rose, who had been brave in so many circumstances, still looked haunted, and (for once) younger than her age. Her huge gray eyes were anxious. “I will be in the nursery waiting for you,” he promised. She smiled, and her dimple appeared.

Once Rose had been bathed and tucked in bed, Thorn set about plucking stories from thin air, stories about brave, intrepid mudlarks. Will starred as the bravest and best diver, the champion retriever of silver spoons and gold coins. Thorn said nothing of teeth, tin buttons, or rat skeletons.

Rose loved every detail. The pinched look in her face went away, and he could see that she was shaping a mythology around her father. That struck him as a good idea. When he had learned, at age twelve, that his mother was dead, he had been angry at her; it had felt like a second abandonment. Perhaps Rose would also feel anger at some point, but less so if she thought of Will as a hero.

Of course, Will’s death was entirely unlike that of Thorn’s mother. It was more like the death of India’s parents: tragically bad luck. He didn’t know why India’s parents were in London the day they died, but he’d bet anything that their trip had nothing to do with flight to the Bermudas. They might not have been attentive parents, but he couldn’t imagine them deserting her.

Hell, he couldn’t imagine anyone leaving her.

Including himself.

Now he had to make her understand that fact—and Vander as well. Thinking of Vander made his blood race. His jaw clenched, and a fresh wave of raw, uncontrolled possessiveness surged through him.

Losing control was unacceptable. But for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he could keep his emotions in check.

It was twilight by the time Thorn strode into the house. He was tired and angry, worried about Rose and frustrated by the mess Vander had made of things. He nodded at Fleming and headed upstairs to find India, so focused that at first he didn’t even register a bedchamber door opening.

But the moment Vander stepped into the corridor, the tension that had coiled in Thorn’s gut for the last hours detonated. He literally saw red, lunging forward and slamming Vander against the wall. “What in the bloody hell did you think you were doing out there?”

“Do you mean when I saved the damsel in distress?” Vander retorted in a low, furious voice, jerking from his grasp. “I mean to marry India. It was simply a preemptive gesture.”

“I’ll be damned if you will!” Thorn exploded into motion and they came to blows with the force of a cannon firing, reeling back into Vander’s bedchamber.

They crashed to the floor, knocking over a small table, then rolled across the floor with undisciplined fury, the only sounds harsh breathing, occasional thuds as a blow landed, the slamming of the door when Vander’s foot caught it, a crash as another delicate table was upended. This one held a crystal decanter. It didn’t shatter, but its stopper came off, and pungent brandy poured out and soaked into the carpet.

“Why did you say you were married to India?” Thorn snarled, pinning Vander momentarily. Vander twisted from his grip, his shirt ripping away from its sleeve. Thorn slammed back into him, crushing him to the floorboards with his arm across his throat. “Damn you, answer me.”

“Because I am marrying her,” Vander shouted. With a violent lunge to the side, he freed himself again. “The whole household is buzzing with the fact that you have obtained a blank license in order to marry Lala; I’ll take that off your hands. I’m marrying India in the morning.”

Thorn’s answer was more a howl than a reply. Two minutes later, he had Vander pinned again. He hadn’t bested Vander at fisticuffs in years, but by God, he was winning this time. “India is mine,” he roared, knowing he was on the verge of losing his final shred of control, every lethal instinct honed in childhood loosed by fury.

“I safeguarded her reputation after you allowed it to be savaged by that harpy,” Vander bellowed back. “You can save Lala from a fate worse than death—living with her despicable mother—but I shall marry India. Because I was the one who stepped forward to protect her, you unmitigated bastard!”

Vander’s words struck with twice the force of his fists. Thorn’s hands loosened and Vander wrenched himself away, rolling to sit up, back to the wall.

Thorn’s right eye was swelling shut, and remnants of his shirt hung from his neck. He pulled his collar free and cast it aside. “You shall not marry her,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t care what you announced: I am the only man who will ever marry India.”

“You slept with her,” Vander said flatly. “You cock-proud arse, you slept with the most desirable woman in England—don’t tell me you didn’t, because a blind man could see the way you look at her—and you didn’t ask for her hand? And when her reputation was trodden into the mud by the devil herself, you said nothing. Are you out of your bloody mind?” His voice had risen to a shout again.

“That’s none of your business,” Thorn replied. Every inch of his body trembled with ferocity.

“Bullshit!” Vander leaned his head back against the wall, chest still heaving. “I’d marry her with or without Lady Rainsford’s provocation, you jackass. I made up my mind to propose after no more than one look at her and a single conversation, let alone a kiss. And you slept with her as if she were a mere doxy, and then let her reputation be smeared into the ground.”