He peered over the stubborn woman’s shoulder as the surgeon examined her bare ankle. Even to his untrained eye, her ankle appeared to be slightly discolored, the flesh puffy. Miss Thorne, however, did have lovely toes. Slender and straight. He could imagine himself nibbling on those sweet tender digits. He doubted the straitlaced lady had ever permitted a gent to suckle her toes or measure the arch of her dainty foot with the tip of his tongue.
Miss Thorne inhaled sharply at the surgeon’s prodding, pulling Vane from his pleasant musings.
“That is quite enough, Mr. Stern,” she ordered. “A little rest will take care of my bruised ankle rather nicely. You may keep your saws in your case.”
“So disagreeable,” the middle-aged surgeon chided lightly. In his experience, most patients were surly, so he took little offense at her crisp tone. “A pretty lass like yourself should be flirting with your man.”
Miss Thorne glanced upward at Vane. Once again, Vane was startled by the impact of her frank perusal, even when those beautiful light brown eyes were clouded with pain and frustration. “Lord Vanewright is not my man, good sir. I barely know him.”
“Well, my dear, if you want my advice—”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do not.”
The surgeon ignored her soft protest. “Might I suggest a little less vinegar, Miss Thorne.” Kneeling at her feet, he winked at her shocked expression. “It will give your man reason to return after I’m gone.”
“Of all the—” Miss Thorne scowled at Vane. “What if I do not want him to return?”
Chuckling, Mr. Stern’s intelligent gaze shifted from the outraged Miss Thorne’s blushing cheeks to the quiet determination he noted on Vane’s face. “Something tells me that the decision is out of your hands, Miss Thorne.”
Before his patient could form a proper response to his outrageous remark, Mr. Stern deftly changed the subject back to her bruised ankle.
* * *
Hours later, Vane arrived at Lord and Lady Heppenstall’s ball. Although he was running late, he was in high spirits. After paying his respects to his host and hostess, he avoided the ballroom and headed down the hall to the card room. There he found his friends. Sin, Frost, Hunter, and Reign were seated at one of the tables, while Dare watched. Vane glanced about the room, but there was no sign of Saint.
“Good evening, gents!” Vane said as he approached the table. “Who’s winning?”
Not glancing up from his cards, Frost replied, “Clearly not you since you are late again. Did you happen to encounter Saint on your way into this crush?”
There was no room for him to join the game, so he accepted the glass of brandy Dare offered him and positioned himself between Sin’s and Hunter’s chairs. “I haven’t seen Saint in three days. I thought he was called away from town for a few days.”
“That’s odd,” Hunter mused. “When I called on his residence yesterday, his butler turned me away and claimed Saint was too ill to receive visitors.”
Reign snorted. “I have never known Saint to take to his bed unless he had a willing female under him.”
Sin pounded his fist on the table. “Hear, hear.”
“I must concur,” Frost said, collapsing his cards into a neat stack and giving them all a sweeping glance. “He was patronizing the Golden Pearl last evening, and from what I saw of him, I can assure you all that the gent was neither infirm nor out of town.”
Vane took a sip of his brandy. “Then why lie to us?”
Sin stirred in his chair. “Perhaps he has a new mistress and isn’t in a mood to share.”
“Or be teased,” Reign added.
“No sharing.” Frost wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Truly, our friend has grown positively missish on us.”
“I don’t think it is a new mistress,” Vane said, his own problems with women flickering in his mind. “Saint’s liaisons tend to be brief. He’s told me many times that a kept female is more trouble than she’s worth.”
Not that Vane was in any position to judge.
Setting aside his cards, Hunter said, “Well, there was that one time—”
Dare abruptly kicked the leg of Hunter’s chair with such violence, the man jumped.
Shooting Dare a murderous glance, Hunter shrugged at everyone’s unspoken question. “Then again, I might have misspoken.”
“Do you have something to share with us, Hunter? Dare?” Vane asked.
It was strange enough that Hunter was allowing Dare’s actions to go unchallenged. Then again, Dare had married Frost’s younger sister, Regan. If Hunter attacked Dare, Frost would feel honor-bound to defend his brother-in-law.
Hunter’s handsome features tightened into a mocking smile. “Nothing worth getting my nose bloodied for. Are we playing cards, gents, or turning into a sorry bunch of gossiping spinsters?”
“Count me out,” Sin said, tossing his cards toward the center of the table. “I’m a happily married man. I would rather fondle my pretty wife in Lord Heppenstall’s back gardens than speculate on Saint’s latest conquest.”
Dare was still boring holes into the back of Hunter’s skull with his hostile stare, but he nodded at Sin’s words. “I’ll take Sin’s chair.”
“Between the two, I would rather take Sin’s wife,” Frost teased, and was rewarded with laughter from his friends. Even Sin joined in, because he knew his lady would likely geld Frost if he were foolish enough to touch her. “Besides, she clearly is the softer choice compared with setting my arse on Heppenstall’s uncomfortable chairs!”
Sin shook his head and laughed. “Juliana speaks fondly of you as well, Frost.” He gestured at the Earl of Rainecourt, who also had a wife awaiting his return to the ballroom. “Reign?”
The earl waved him off. “Tell Sophia that I will join her after I win my money back from Frost.”
Vane uncoiled from his position against the wall. “I’ll walk with you, Sin. I have yet to pay my respects to my mother this evening.”
As the two men said their farewells to their friends, Frost said, “Vane, you may want to pay your respects to Reign’s poor wife. His losses will likely keep him from the ballroom the entire night!”
* * *
Sin and Vane threaded their way down the crowded passageway toward the ballroom. The orchestra was in fine form and was playing an energetic country dance. The cheers and clapping from the onlookers could be heard even at a distance.
“Saint isn’t the only one who has been absent from Nox,” Sin observed aloud.
Vane feigned innocence. “Me? Well, in my defense, I was enjoying a mistress.”
Walking with his hands clasped behind his back, Sin quirked his brow in a questioning manner. “Was?”
“It seemed best to part ways.” Vane hedged. He had not seen the dressmaker’s bill yet, but he was confident that Bridget would try to beggar him with her demands.
“Best?” Sin seemed to taste the word. “The last time you thought it best to part ways with a mistress, she tried to crack your thick skull with a chamber pot.”
Vane grinned at the forgotten memory. He had been seventeen, greener than spring oats, and the fair lady in question had caught him seducing her cousin. He could not even recall the murderous wench’s name, but he still had a dent above his right ear from the crockery she had broken over his head.
“Oh, Bridget liked me well enough.”
“Bridget Corsar?” A glimpse of the former rogue surfaced in Sin’s expression as he recognized her name. “A fine woman. Very enthusiastic in temperament, if I recollect.”
“Very,” Vane confirmed, sounding a little wistful. “However, it seemed prudent to give her up before my mother decided to carry out her threat.”
Sin frowned. “Your mother? What did Lady Netherley have to do with Miss Corsar?”
“Nothing. And I intend to keep it that way.” Vane walked in silence until he was satisfied no one could overhear them. “Can you believe my mother wanted an introduction?”
“You jest!”
If only he was. “When my mother learned of my budding friendship with Miss Corsar, she naturally concluded it was an affair of the heart.”
“Naturally.”
His frustration increased as he recalled the discussion with his mother. “How was I supposed to tell my dear mother that the only thing I wanted from Miss Corsar was a vigorous and thorough—”
“Debate,” the marquess interjected smoothly as they passed two elderly matrons. “Good evening, ladies.”
Vane also inclined his head to the two women. “I vow, Sin, I will be a raving madman if my mother persists with her ridiculous attempts at matchmaking. For two years I have tolerated her mischief with humor, but no more.” He halted, and placed his hand on Sin’s shoulder. “I cannot engage a lady in polite conversation without worrying that the lady in question is conspiring with my mother.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
It annoyed Vane that his friend was not taking him seriously. “Am I? Last month, my mother told Lady Sankey that she would happily pay any willing miss a king’s ransom if she was clever enough to trick me into marriage.”
“And who told you this?”
“Lady Sankey, when I discovered her disrobing in my bedchamber.” His hand tightened on Sin’s shoulder when the marquess surrendered all sense of decorum and started laughing. “God’s teeth, Sin! Lady Sankey cannot be a day under sixty! Can you not fathom what my mother has done? Although she denies it, my mother has placed a veritable bounty on my head. If this gets out, every female from the lowest scullery maid to your grandmother will be dreaming of ways to compromise me into marriage.”
Sin sobered, and urged Vane to continue walking since they were drawing attention. “Fortunately for you, my grandmother has long departed this world. However, you might want to avoid my sister this season.”
“Oh, go stuff your advice in your arse!” Vane snarled as he shook off the marquess’s staying hand. He abruptly stopped, and pivoted so he was face-to-face with Sin. “I thought you, above all whom I consider my closest friends, would understand and not make a mockery of my misery.”
He walked away before he did something foolish like punch the arrogant bastard.
“Vane … wait!”
A curse was on his lips when his friend seized his arm. “I’ve had enough of your advice for one evening, Sin.”
All mirth had vanished from the marquess’s features as he steadily met Vane’s angry gaze. “Forgive me, I didn’t know this was troubling you so much. You have always spoken of it as an annoyance … a battle of wills between you and your mother. What does your father have to say about this matter?”
“It has never been addressed.” He and his father were quite adept at avoiding all things of importance. “Even so, he has never been secretive about his disappointment in me. That I do not deserve the Netherley title.”
No, that honor belonged to his brother. Unfortunately for his mother and father, his brother was dead, and Vane was their only living son.
The reluctant heir.
“Nonsense. You are more than worthy,” Sin said loyally. “If your father ever spoke those words, he said them with grief in his heart. Everyone knows he took your brother’s death hard.”
Vane solemnly nodded. “As did my mother, though she hides it well. It is probably why she is so determined to see me settled with a wife. I’m all they have left to continue the family line.”
“And it is a lousy reason to marry.”
They had reached the ballroom. From the corner of his eye, Sin caught sight of his beloved Juliana. Sensing her husband’s attention, she turned and smiled at them. Vane inclined his head in her direction.
“If you want my advice, let your mother play her matchmaking games. You have foiled her efforts for two seasons, and this spring will be no different. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Besides marriage?” Vane’s thoughts drifted to Isabel and Delia Thorne. How could he pursue a harmless flirtation with his mother looking on? Even if his friends could only see the humor of his awkward predicament, Vane was no longer laughing. His mouth curled with revulsion. “Celibacy.”
Chapter Seven
“Milady, Miss Isabel Thorne.”
Isabel curtsied. “Lady Netherley,” she said as she carefully glanced sideways at the butler. In her note, the marchioness had begged Isabel to be discreet, and servants were a great source for information if one bothered to make inquiries.
“Thank you, Squires,” the marchioness said, rising from one of the drawing room chairs. “That will be all.”
“Very good, madam.” The servant closed the doors, the sound making Isabel’s heart leap in her chest.
The marchioness extended her hand toward Isabel. “Pray join me.”
Her nerves rather than pain made Isabel’s limp more pronounced as she approached Lady Netherley. At first glance, there was little physical resemblance between the seventy-two-year-old woman and her son Lord Vanewright. She was short in stature; age and childbirth had rounded her face and girth. Her once strawberry-blond hair had darkened into brown hues, and silver threaded her bound tresses, especially near her temples.
It was Lady Netherley’s eyes that reminded Isabel of the earl’s. Like her son’s, her eyes were a warm shade of blue-green. While Lord Vanewright’s gaze tended to have a cynical cast, though, the marchioness seemed to convey kindness and humor even if it wasn’t warranted.
“Oh, my, why did you not tell me that you were hurt,” Lady Netherley said, her face clouding with concern. “Should I summon Squires?”
Isabel smiled reassuringly at the older woman. “Your butler’s assistance is not required. The surgeon assures me that it is simply bruised, and it is mending nicely.” She did not even have to use the walking stick the man had suggested.
Although she had met Isabel only twice, the marchioness did not hesitate. She wrapped her arm around Isabel’s waist and helped to ease her onto the nearest sofa. “Perhaps a pillow,” she muttered, frowning at Isabel’s foot. “Or I could have Squires bring a basin of warm water?”
“Do not bother. My ankle is fine,” she said firmly. Obstinacy was another attribute mother and son had in common. “Besides, once you hear my tale, you will agree a few bruises were worth the outcome.”
Lady Netherley’s gaze lifted from Isabel’s foot to her face. A sly grin brightened her features. “You have good news for me?”
Isabel nodded. “You were correct. Lord Vanewright was indeed at the dressmaker’s shop at the designated hour. It was not very difficult to make him believe our meeting was by accident.”
She did not add that the earl had been dallying with another lady in one of the private rooms.
Lady Netherley beamed at her. “Excellent!” She sat down next to Isabel on the sofa and affectionately patted her hand. “I knew when I was introduced to you while I was visiting Cotersage that I could count on you, Miss Thorne.”
* * *
“Vane, what on earth are you doing here?”
Vane turned his head when he heard his name, and mentally winced. Dare’s wife had just entered the dressmaker’s shop with two of her friends. Any hope that his friends would remain ignorant of his small errand had vanished. He thanked the clerk and strode toward the three women.
“Good afternoon, Regan. Miss Bramwell. Miss Tyne,” he said, cordially bowing. He pivoted the toe of his right boot in the direction of the door, his thoughts on escape. “Do not allow me to distract you from your errands.”
Regan grabbed his hand and tugged him closer. “Oh, no, you do not escape me that easily!” She rolled up on her toes and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek.
Although they were not related by blood, Regan was a sister of his heart. As Frost’s younger sibling, she had literally been raised by the Lords of Vice. Each of them had contributed to her unconventional education. Vane had shared with her his passion for chemistry—and, inadvertently, his penchant for playing with fire. Fortunately, Nox’s kitchens suffere
d most of the damage, and Regan had been sent away to a boarding school. Though Vane suspected her five-year banishment from London had more to do with Dare than with the fire.
Not that the separation had quelled the attraction between Regan and Dare. His friend had married Regan within weeks of her return to London.
Vane could hardly blame Dare. Beautiful, intelligent, and adventurous as any Lord of Vice, Regan was a treasure, one he had also contemplated claiming for himself. However, he did not envy having Frost as a brother-in-law.
Dare was a brave man, indeed!
“I cannot believe Dare has allowed you out of the house without a footman or two to look after you and your friends.”
Regan rolled her eyes. “You are a fine one to lecture me. I heard that you tried to chase down a pickpocket in this very shop!”
“Not alone. I had a little help,” he said drily, thinking of the courageous Miss Thorne.
Her two companions, Miss Tyne and Miss Bramwell, smiled at her light scolding.
Regan continued as if Vane had not spoken. “Besides, we have two men just beyond the door. I would never hear the end of it from Dare or Frost if I wandered London alone.”
His friends had good reason for their concern. Last spring, Regan had become separated from the footman watching over her, and a madwoman had pushed her into the busy street. It was a miracle Regan had not been trampled to death by a horse or wagon.
Vane shifted slightly to include Regan’s friends in their conversation. “Miss Tyne and Miss Bramwell, you both look lovely as always. And Miss Tyne, forgive me for not congratulating you on your recent betrothal. My mother tells me the wedding will take place in the autumn.”
Miss Tyne blushed at his attention. “Thank you, Lord Vanewright. Yes, the wedding will take place in September.”
Regan’s blue eyes narrowed on him. She poked his chest with her finger. “You think you are clever, do you not?”
“Often enough,” Vane quipped. “And you disagree?”
“All the compliments and flummery will not distract me from my original question,” Regan said, nodding to her friends for support. “You have not told us why you are here.”
Sunrise with a Notorious Lord Page 4
