Anne Barbour (13 page)

She shrugged. It would not happen again, of course. Henceforth, she would be on guard against Thorne’s base nature—and her own. She blew out the candle on her bedside table and turned a resolute shoulder into her pillow, but as she drifted toward sleep, a question niggled at her brain. Who was Lady Barbara Freemantle, and what hold, if any, did she possess over the elusive Lord Bythorne?

* * * *

Returning from an afternoon of sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon a few days later, Thorne was startled to discover a strange gentleman in his drawing room.

“A Mr. Bentham,” Hobart whispered on taking his master’s hat, gloves and walking stick. “He has come to see Miss Blayne.”

The gentleman rose unhurriedly to his feet when Thorne entered the room and moved forward gravely. He was tall and slender, with sandy hair that waved smoothly above rather narrow features. He was dressed, if not in the height of fashion, with a precise modishness, and he wore his coat of Bath superfine and dove gray pantaloons with a modest flair.

“Ah,” said the gentleman in a tone that seemed carefully cordial. “You must be Lord Bythorne. I am Trevor Bentham. I have come to—

“Trevor,” chimed a voice from the doorway, “how very nice to see you.”

As Hester advanced toward them, Thorne was even more startled when she suffered an embrace from the unknown Mr. Bentham and kissed him on the cheek with what Thorne could only consider a tasteless display of enthusiasm.

“And have you met Lord Bythorne?” asked Hester.

“We were just introducing ourselves,” said Thorne. He lifted his brows questioningly. “You are old friends, I take it.”

“Oh, yes.” Hester reached to touch Mr. Bentham’s arm. “Trevor and I have known each other this age. He and my publisher—John Thompson—are well acquainted and when I was writing my first book—the Apologia—Trevor was of immeasurable help. He edited my work and offered valuable suggestions.” She dimpled at him, and Mr. Bentham responded with a modest smile.

Thorne rang for tea. Hester gestured Mr. Bentham to a settee and seated herself beside him, leaving Thorne to arrange himself in a chair some distance away.

“Do you reside in London?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Bentham. “I live with my mother in Queen Ann Street, near Cavendish Square.”

Thorne recognized the address as respectable, if not quite fashionable. “I suppose you have not seen Hester for some time.”

Mr. Bentham’s brows rose marginally at the sound of Hester’s first name on the earl’s lips, but he replied smoothly, “That is true. Mother’s health is such that I do not stray far from home, so the only time Hester and I have seen each other recently is on her flying visits to the city.”

Thorne did not miss the slight emphasis that Mr. Bentham placed on the lady’s name, and smiled inwardly. Had he struck a nerve? he wondered. Just how close a relationship did Hester enjoy with Trevor Bentham? He became aware that Bentham was speaking again.

“We were so pleased to hear that Hester has come for an extended visit to the metropolis. All her friends will be delighted.” His glance flicked between Hester and Thorne. “I was unaware that you and the Earl of Bythorne were acquainted,” he remarked.

“Did you not know that we are cousins?” asked Thorne innocently. At Bentham’s expression of incredulous surprise, he continued casually. “Of course, the relationship is quite distant, but Hester’s mother and mine were great friends and we played together as children.” He ignored the small gasp emitted from Hester’s direction. “We only rediscovered the connection, however, when my ward informed me that she is a great admirer of Hester’s work. I seconded most heartily her invitation to Hester to make an extended stay, and all of us here were most pleased when she accepted. It is unfortunate that both Chloe and Aunt Lavinia are out of the house at present.”

Hobart entered the room at that point, followed by a footman carrying a full complement of tea and cakes. These, he deposited tenderly on a table before Hester, who rather self-consciously took up the duty of hostess. When she offered a cup of tea to Thorne, however, he refused politely.

“I am sure you and your friend have a great deal to catch up on, my dear, and since there are matters that require my attention, I shall leave you all. It has been a pleasure meeting you, sir.”

He rose, and with mutual expressions of goodwill, left the room. It seemed to Hester that with his departure, something vital went with him, so that the drawing room, despite its elegance, suddenly became rather drab and uninviting.

She shook herself from this foolish fancy and turned to Trevor. “Now, do tell me all the news,” she began. “Has Mr. Fenwick completed his dissertation? And did—”

“You never told me you were related to the Earl of Bythorne,” interrupted Trevor. He flushed immediately, as though aware of his gaucherie. “That is, I confess I am somewhat surprised to find you in such, er, sybaritic surroundings. I must say, I view the situation as somewhat improper, and I am surprised that you came to London at all without notifying me. Had I known you wished to visit the city, Mother and I would have been glad to open our home to you.”

Hester experienced a spurt of irritation. Much as she liked and respected Trevor, she objected strongly to his proprietary manner toward her. He had always made it clear to Hester that he wished to be more than friends, and once, several years ago, had proposed marriage. She had refused him firmly and with great kindness—perhaps not firmly enough and with too much kindness, for he had apparently taken her refusal as mere maidenly hesitation. Though he had not repeated his proposal, he had persisted in his attentions, behaving as though he and Hester were in a state of semi-betrothal.

Hester lifted her chin. “I did not think myself obliged to consult you, Trevor, nor do I see what gives you the right to judge the propriety of my actions. In any case, you are quite wrong. I am well chaperoned by the presence in the house of Thorne’s aunt, and—what?” she asked as Trevor’s features grew positively rigid with disapproval and his thin brows flew into his hairline.

“I noticed that he had the temerity to call you by your first name—I almost commented on it. But I hardly thought you would reciprocate.” He sniffed. Hester’s irritation disappeared in a burst of laughter, at which Trevor stiffened even further until Hester thought he might easily be pounded into the carpet with a sturdy mallet.

“I’m sorry, Trevor,” she said through the chuckles she was unable to suppress wholly. “But you are being ridiculous. Lord Bythorne is quite respectable.”

Trevor snorted.

“At least where his family is concerned,” amended Hester. “And this is his family home, for goodness sake. I am well chaperoned here by his aunt—and the presence of his ward, of course. And there is Lady Bracken, his aunt and a pillar of propriety if ever was. She does not live in the house, but she is a frequent visitor and has welcomed me most graciously.”

Hester was forced to bite her tongue a little on that last, but she maintained her expression of mirthful disdain.

Trevor, apparently deciding on a prudent retreat, assumed an injured air. “No need to fly up into the boughs, my dear. I was merely expressing my concern. We are certainly more than just friends, after all, and that being the case, I certainly believe I have that right.”

The laughter drained away from Hester as though a plug had been removed from her toes. She spoke carefully. “I do appreciate your concern, Trevor, but it is quite as unnecessary as it is unwarranted.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I think we must agree to disagree on that point. Now, do tell me about Mr. Fenwick.”

Trevor pursed his lips, and for a moment it looked as though he meant to continue the discussion at hand, but apparently thinking the better of such a course, he smiled ruefully.

“No, he has not finished his work. When last heard from, he had decided to abandon his comparison of the poetry of Ovid and Pindar for a critique of the plays of Aeschylus. He is much taken with his new project, though, as you might apprehend, Miss Yelping is much overset.”

Hester smiled in instant comprehension. Mr. Jasper Fenwick and Miss Henrietta Yelping were members of the discussion group to which Hester and Trevor belonged. They had been at odds with each other for years, and Miss Yelping, in an effort to prove her intellectual superiority had some years ago begun an appraisal of various Greek playwrights. To have Mr. Fenwick now devote his energies to one of those writers must have sounded an all-out call to arms.

Rolling these matters about in her mind brought the squabbles and foibles of other members of the rest of her set to mind, and suddenly she was flooded with a sense of being anchored once more. It was here she belonged, among people who relished above all things lively arguments over intellectual esoterica. She had allowed herself to be momentarily drawn into Lord Bythorne’s orbit, but she was only a small, passing comet in his glittering firmament. In less than three months, she would have returned to her own quiet corner of the universe, and in the meantime, she had her friends to remind her of her direction in life.

She bestowed a brilliant smile on Trevor that quite took that gentleman’s breath away.

“Yes, I can quite imagine Miss Yelping must be livid. I suppose that Mrs. Mayville is supportive, as always?”

They chatted for some minutes longer, and after the proper interval for an afternoon call had elapsed, Trevor rose.

“I must take my leave,” he said regretfully, and kissed Hester rather lingeringly on her cheek. “Do come see us. Mama would be pleased, I’m sure.”

Murmuring an insincere reply, Hester saw her visitor on his way with a promise to attend the next meeting of the group, to be held the following week in the home of another of its members.

She had no sooner closed the front door behind Trevor when she perceived the earl running lightly down the stairs, to be met by Hobart at the foot, with coat, hat, and walking stick.

“You are leaving us, my—Thorne?” she asked.

“Mm, yes. I have a dinner engagement at White’s, with cards afterwards.”

And a little something on the side after that, thought Hester before she could stop herself.

“I wonder if I might have a word with you before you leave,” she said calmly.

“As many as you like, my dear,” Thorne responded courteously, gesturing her into the gold saloon, just off the entrance hall.

“Well?” he asked blandly as he entered the room behind her. A spark of unholy amusement lit the depths of his dark eyes, and she felt herself flushing angrily.

“I am not your dear,” she retorted tartly. “And what was all that nonsense about our mothers being great friends?  And playing together as children? If your mother so much as knew of the existence of the wife of an insignificant baronet from Shropshire, I should be very much surprised.”

“As should I,” he responded coolly. “I shall be the first to admit the whole scenario was a faradiddle. All right, I told an absolute bouncer, but it was all in a good cause, don’t you agree? We wouldn’t want Trevor to jump to any erroneous conclusions, now would we?”

“My lord—”

“Thorne.”

“Oh, very well—Thorne—I do not require your dubious assistance in reassuring Trevor.”

“But, your reputation, Hester.” Thorne opened his eyes very wide. “You are my cousin, after all, and it is my duty to protect your reputation.”

“My reputation doesn’t need protecting,” snapped Hester. “Even if I were living in the same house with you sans chaperon, it would suffice that
I
knew our relationship to be innocent. I do not care what others may think!”

“Ah.”

Hester caught her breath as the devil’s light returned to Thorne’s eyes. “But, would it be innocent?”

In the moment of appalled silence in which Hester simply gaped at him, Thorne lifted a hand and twitched the cap from her hair. Gasping, she clapped both hands to her head, but it was too late. In one swift movement, Thorne slid his fingers through the knot she had created beneath it. Hairpins rained to the carpet, and heavy coils of hair tumbled over his hands to fall about her shoulders.

Hester uttered a small whimper of protest, but it went unheeded.

“It is as silky as I thought it must be,” said Thorne almost wonderingly. “It feels like a sable pelt I once held in my hands as a boy.”

Hester gasped in shock and pushed vigorously against him, but his hands had slipped to her shoulders, where he continued to stroke the waves of hair that now cascaded in abandon. She stared up at him and immediately regretted this action, for she felt she was falling into his gaze, a mesmerizing whirlpool that seemed to draw her into his very center. He stroked her cheek tenderly before lowering his head, and the next moment, his lips covered hers. She was, she acknowledged as a flaming heat swept through her, in the hands of a master. His mouth was warm and his kiss practiced. If he did not stop in the very next few seconds, she was not sure her legs would continue to hold her up.

But he did not stop. He lifted his lips from hers only to bring them to rest again, this time against her closed eyes, then to her jaw, then downward, creating a trail of delight along her throat before returning again to her mouth, which he coaxed open with the tip of his tongue. As he tasted her, she heard herself moan, and with the last of her will, she pushed against him once more. When he would have ignored her, she thrust harder, and this time he released her, very slowly.

Hester drew a deep, shuddering breath, and with more strength than she knew she possessed, she reached to tidy her hair.

“Well now,” she said prosaically, pleased that her voice bore only a trace of breathlessness. “You do that very well, Thorne.” With great effort, she infused her tone with the inflection of an adult chiding a small boy for breaking into a forbidden cupboard. “And I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it, but it won’t do. you know. Please don’t do that again, or I shall have to take measures.”

If she had dashed a cup of cold water into his face, Thorne could not have been more astonished. He stepped back abruptly and for several moments stood staring at her, his mouth open. He whirled on his heel then and strode from the room. In a moment, she heard the slamming of the front door.