“Yes, my lord.” Perkins’ voice was hollow.
***
Lord Hawthorne was at his club an hour later, browsing the newspapers and carrying on a desultory conversation with an old acquaintance, when a white-gloved waiter brought him a letter laid on a silver tray. “This was just delivered for you, my lord.”
The paper was high quality; the address had definitely been written by a feminine hand, and the impression stamped in the sealing wax on the back was one Thorne didn’t recognize.
His interest piqued, he broke the seal and glanced at the contents. He then refolded the paper and tucked it carefully into the inner breast pocket of his coat. “My apologies, Hastings,” he said to the man sitting across from him. “You were saying?”
Lord Hastings didn’t look surprised. “Message from a lady,” he deduced. “You won’t want to keep her waiting. I must say I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to stop living in your wife’s pocket and find a new mistress.”
“Indeed,” Thorne murmured, and leaned back in his chair. “But there’s no rush. Do, please, continue telling me about that horse.”
“You’re a wise man,” Hastings said, seemingly unaware that he was now contradicting himself. “Never let a mistress think you’re so anxious to see her that you’ll come running the very moment she drops her handkerchief. Now about this bay—it’s the sweetest goer I’ve ever seen, and…”
***
In due time, Thorne presented himself at the lady’s door and was admitted by the butler without a word being exchanged.
She was waiting for him in her sitting room, dressed in a velvet robe of his favorite dark green. Her hair was tied back in a loose knot that made his fingers itch to take it down, to stroke the long smooth dark strands and then to brand the nape of her neck with his lips before moving on, farther and deeper, to brand the rest of her in his own most personal way.
Instead, he stood very straight in the center of the room and said sternly, “After all these months with no word at all, you dare to summon me out of the blue with a message containing nothing more than a time and a place?”
“And a promise.”
“Certain of yourself, aren’t you?”
Her eyebrows arched. “You’re here,” she pointed out. “If you didn’t wish to come, no one was forcing you.”
“What sort of a mistress lets months go by without even attempting to meet her lover?” He stripped off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair.
“A mistress who has an obligation to give her husband an heir,” she murmured.
“The selfish bastard,” Thorne said calmly. He was taking the pins out of her hair as he spoke, and he buried his face in the rich silky strands to inhale her scent. Then he picked her up from the sofa and carried her into the adjoining bedroom. “I suppose he’ll want a spare one day, too.”
“I think it quite likely.”
“Well, we’ll worry about that when the time comes.” His voice was muffled because he had unfastened her robe and was nuzzling her breast. “Maybe we’ll present him with my child, instead of his. He’s dim enough not to notice.”
“He’ll never know the difference,” she whispered. Her hands were busy as well; his shirt gaped open.
“Speaking of time,” he added as he sat down to pull off his boots, “it was wicked of you to give me hours to contemplate this assignation.”
She shrugged. “I had no idea how long it would take my footman to find you and deliver the message.”
“Minx. You knew exactly where to find me at that hour of the morning, and you deliberately gave me plenty of time to anticipate what we will do together.”
She smiled, just a little.
“But you’ll pay for it, because I am so hard and so hot for you that it may take all night for you to satisfy me.”
“Then it’s a good thing I left the heir with his nurse so he won’t be screaming because I’m delayed.”
“It would be a shame if he set the house in such an uproar that servants went out to search for you.” He stepped out of his buckskins.
She looked her fill. “I see you don’t exaggerate, my lord—and indeed I am pleased, for I plan to satisfy you no matter how long it may take.” She reached for a decanter on a nearby tray and handed him a glass. “You’ll need something for stamina, no doubt.”
He took the glass, looking at her across the rim. “This is brandy, Anne,” he said, and suddenly the teasing note was gone from his voice. “You don’t like the taste of brandy.”
“On you,” she said, “I love the taste of anything. Come to bed, Thorne.”
He sipped his drink and set it aside. “And I love the taste of you, my Lady Wilde,” he said, and joined her. He reached into a drawer next to the bed and handed her a velvet box.
She toyed with the clasp. “I’m glad you decided not to sell the house.”
“I couldn’t. It belongs to you. But you, my darling, belong to me.”
She smiled at him and opened the box. A necklace and bracelet of perfectly matched rubies winked against the white velvet lining. “They’re beautiful.”
“The jeweler has been all this time finding them for you,” Thorne said. “I told him the day we met at his shop that I wanted to drape you in rubies.”
“It is a generous gift,” she said thoughtfully, “and as your wife, I am most grateful for this token of your love. But as your mistress—I fear I am greedy. Rubies are not enough, my lord. Show me.”
***
In the sitting room, Thorne’s coat slid slowly from the back of the chair where he had carelessly tossed it, dislodging the letter. The paper fluttered to the carpet and lay open.
Four this afternoon. Number 5 Upper Seymour Street—where all your dreams will come true.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to: Rachelle Chase, who encouraged, cajoled, and downright nagged me into writing this book—thank you, my friend. To my editor, Deb Werksman, whose enthusiasm for this story is everything an author could ask for. To my incredibly involved and responsive agent, Christine Witthohn of Book Cents Literary Agency, for reasons beyond number. To Jacqui Bianchi, who forgot more about writing and editing than most authors and editors ever knew. To Horst and Renate, who gave me seven weeks in London, and to Kate and Biddy, who shared their love of British history. To my extraordinary friends Elaine Orr and Margaret Trucano and to my sweet sister, Linda Smith, for listening. And to my readers everywhere—thank you for making this journey with me.
About the Author
Leigh Michaels is the author of eighty contemporary romance novels and a half dozen nonfiction books, including On Writing Romance and Creating Romantic Characters. More than 35 million copies of her books have been published. She is a six-time finalist in the RITA contest sponsored by Romance Writers of America, and has received two Reviewer’s Choice awards from Romantic Times magazine. She teaches romance writing online for Gotham Writers Workshop (www.writingclasses.com). She wrote her first romance novel when she was a teenager and burned it, then wrote and burned five more complete manuscripts before submitting to a publisher.
She lives in Iowa with her artist/photographer husband, Michael W. Lemberger, where she enjoys taking long walks and watching wildlife in her garden.
Her website is www.leighmichaels.com, and she can be contacted at [email protected].
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