by Wolf, Bree
A gentle smile came to her face. “Of course. Do not worry. I promise all will be well.”
“I wish I had your faith in the future,” Christina mumbled, then turned to head toward the most comfortable-looking armchair. After a single step, though, she stopped and turned back around. “Do you know who invited Mr. Sharpe here today?”
Grandma Edie shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Then she smiled and closed the door, her hobbled steps echoing down the hall as she moved away.
Chapter Six
Without Hesitation
Long before Thorne stepped into Lord Pemberton’s townhouse, he knew what was to come. With each step, more whispers drifted to his ears, and he could almost feel the other guests’ stares like little pinpricks on the back of his head. Indeed, they barely tried to hide their shock and outrage at his presence. Of course, they did not need to. They were the top of society, looking down on all those they considered beneath them, him included. No one ever held them accountable for their deeds nor sought to correct them for their conduct. As far as they were concerned, they were portraying appropriate manners.
As far as Thorne was concerned, they were being rude.
Nevertheless, Thorne was determined not to respond. He held his head high, an appropriately polite smile upon his face, and entered the drawing room. His gaze swept over the many guests, and he ignored their pointed stares as best as he could before he retreated to one side of the room, a vantage position from where he could overlook most of the goings-on. While he was being watched by everyone else, he himself continued to observe the people he had come here to see today.
Indeed, the Wicked Whickertons—as the ton had come to call them—were a rather unusual family; however, Thorne could not say that he disapproved. Quite on the contrary!
While Lord and Lady Whickerton were conversing with their daughter and new son-in-law, the Marquess of Pemberton, the other five siblings were mingling with friends and acquaintances around the room as well as in the gardens, Thorne supposed. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the dowager countess snoozing in an armchair, the eldest Whickerton sister never far from her side. The youngest, a redhead, was standing by the windows, her gaze fixed on a flock of birds crossing the light blue sky, their calls echoing indoors.
Where was she?
A tempting tingle snaked down the back of his neck, and Thorne turned around, his gaze falling on his golden-haired fury, Lady Christina.
She had yet to take notice of his presence as she stood with none other than Miss Mortensen—of course!—in a corner of the drawing room. Had they only just entered? Or had he truly overlooked her before?
Thorne doubted it.
His pulse quickened as he looked at her. She was beautiful—there was no doubt about it! Still, what captivated his attention were neither her golden tresses nor the enticing curves of her figure. Indeed, Thorne found himself trying to catch her eyes, trying to make her look at him and see him. Those deep blue eyes often flashed with sparks, some speaking of joy and exuberance while others—particularly when she was looking at him—revealed annoyance, fury even. She loathed him; that much was clear.
And it bothered him.
It bothered him a lot.
On some level, of course, he could understand why she felt about him the way she did. She was clearly protective of her friend. For some unknown reason, Miss Mortensen seemed all but terrified of him. Never had he raised his voice to her or spoken unkindly in her presence; her eyes, though, never quite dared to meet his, and she seemed pale whenever he stepped into a room. Thorne was mightily tempted to address the issue; however, he gathered that it would once again show poor manners and most likely send her into retreat once more, leaving him without answers yet again.
Perhaps Lady Christina would be more forthcoming. Indeed, she had not struck him as someone who would hold back. Her directness and unflinching approach had been impressive to watch. He had enjoyed their conversation the other day, and it had lingered upon his mind far longer than he had anticipated.
All the Whickerton siblings seemed rather dauntless and unflinching in their approach to the world. While some, like the newly married sister, Lady Pemberton, seemed to be of a quieter disposition, she still did not strike him as one who would ever bow her head. Neither did the eldest daughter, who constantly hovered around her grandmother. Although she remained in the shadows, her watchful eyes saw more than he supposed others ever suspected. She seemed quite assured of herself, conversing easily with others, her chin raised and her eyes never fearful.
It was a family with great respect for each individual member. Thorne could see it in the way the parents’ eyes constantly swept the room as though needing to assure themselves that all their children were well and accounted for. The six siblings often seemed to drift toward one another, never straying far from each other’s side, always aware when one was leaving or in need of counsel or comfort.
Thorne had to admit observing them made him yearn. It made him remember what was lacking in his life. It made him wish his parents and brothers and sisters had lived. It made him wish he had had a chance to get to know them beyond the few years they had shared.
His gaze moved back to Lady Christina, and as though she could feel him looking at her, her head turned in that moment and those flashing blue eyes looked into his.
Thorne felt it like a punch to the gut. That moment when they connected, when she was seeing him. Her eyes shot daggers, of course, but they were looking at him.
Him.
And no one else.
Thorne offered her a little smile, and it seemed to rile her even further. Behind her, Miss Mortensen seemed paler than before, her eyes darting to him and then quickly away again, never quite lingering. Words were exchanged between the two young women before the youngest Whickerton sister appeared, her red hair bouncing on her shoulders, as she turned to see what her sister was glaring at.
Her eyes came to fall upon him for a moment, and Thorne saw the corners of her mouth curl upward. Clearly, she did not share Lady Christina’s aversion to him.
The three conversed amongst themselves as Thorne continued to watch, delighting in each and every loathing glare Lady Christina cast his way. He could not help but think that she did not despise him nearly as much as she wanted to. There was something in those blue eyes of hers that whispered of other emotions, emotions she desperately wanted to hold in check. Indeed, he could not help but think that on some level she, too, was enjoying this rather unexpected connection between them.
It was precisely what had brought Thorne here today.
A moment later, the youngest Whickerton sister pulled Miss Mortensen away and the two of them stepped out into the gardens. Lady Christina remained behind, but only for a moment before she cast him another menacing glare and then turned on her heel and disappeared out into the corridor. Thorne could not be certain where it led; however, he was certain he needed to follow.
Willing his feet to remain still for another few heartbeats, his gaze fixed upon the arched doorway through which Lady Christina had disappeared. Thorne then moved forward, feeling his heart quicken inside his chest with anticipation.
Always had he known what he wanted. Always had he been one quick to realize his ambitions and desires. And always had he been one to pursue them with single-minded purpose, never hesitating, never questioning.
The corridor lay deserted, and with each step he took forward, the voices at his back began to dim. His gaze swept over the many doors lining the walls on each side, and he wondered how to proceed when suddenly his gaze caught movement up ahead.
The door opened, and he could hear voices. He was yet too far away to make out what they were saying; however, he was certain that one of the voices belonged to Lady Christina.
In the next moment, the dowager countess stepped out into the corridor, paused for a moment, more mumbled words leaving her lips, before she chuckled and then closed the door. She turned down the c
orridor and her gaze fell upon him.
For a heartbeat or two, the elderly woman simply looked at him, something curious and determined in her gaze. Then she moved toward him, her right hand leaning on her cane; nevertheless, she moved with surprising agility. “Mr. Sharpe, I presume.” Something almost wicked twinkled in her pale eyes as she regarded him.
Thorne chuckled. “You presume right, my lady.” As though she did not know! His gaze moved down the corridor and came to linger upon the door she had closed behind her.
“These events can be somewhat tiring,” she told him, casting a glance over her shoulder. “If you are in need of a temporary retreat, I would suggest the library. It is a most peaceful place.” A devilish grin came to her face. “It might be precisely what you’re looking for.” Her brows rose in what seemed like a daring challenge before she nodded to him and then began to continue making her way back toward the drawing room. Her hobbled steps made him wonder which of the impressions he had gained reflected the truth.
“Are you certain?” Thorne asked by the time she had almost reached the end of the corridor. “I know that…doubts can be a hard thing to live with.”
The dowager countess turned to look back at him. “Truer words have never been spoken,” she said to him, her eyes now thoughtful. “However, doubts can be had for more than one reason. The choice is yours as it will be hers.”
“As it was yours?”
The dowager countess nodded. “As it was mine, and I never once regretted it.”
Thorne smiled at her. “Never?”
She shook her head. “Never.” Then she turned and slowly walked away.
Inhaling a deep breath, Thorne marched down the corridor toward the door she had closed behind her earlier. He hesitated for a moment, thinking that perhaps it would be wise to think things through more thoroughly. Nonetheless, deep down, Thorne knew what he wanted.
He had known since the first moment he had seen her. He had never expected to feel anything remotely like what he felt, yet it did not alter the truth, did it?
A smile came to his face as he reached for the handle and then pushed the door open.
Indeed, he knew his choice, and he would not hesitate.
Chapter Seven
The Place of Another
Despite the emotional upheaval that made her heart beat frantically in her chest, Christina felt herself breathe more easily as her gaze swept over the rows upon rows of books in the library. After discarding her slippers, she had snuggled into the armchair, pulled up her legs and rested her head against the soft upholstery. Warm light streamed in from the windows, casting a soft glow around the large, vaulted room.
Christina breathed out a sigh of relief, feeling her muscles relax and her mind quiet. Always had the library been her favorite place in the world, ever since she had been a child. Although she had given up writing down her own musings and imaginings long ago, Christina still enjoyed diving into another’s. Few books remained in her father’s library that she had not yet read for she enjoyed being carried off to another world, to see the world through another’s eyes, to experience things far removed from her own, comparatively cloistered life.
Indeed, it felt good to retreat from the world every once in a while. Her grandmother had been correct to suggest it. Her heartbeat slowly calmed, and she felt the tension of the past few moments slowly leave her body. A familiar smile came to her face as her gaze continued to sweep across the long rows of books, and her mind began to urge her to tiptoe across the carpet and snatch a volume from the tall bookshelf across from her.
“Only a page or two,” Christina whispered to herself as her legs slipped off the armchair, her stockinged feet coming to rest upon the floor. “No more than a page or two, then I’ll return to the drawing room.” A soft giggle drifted from her lips as she rose to her feet, leaving her slippers behind, and stepped toward the promise of retreat her eyes were fixed upon. She had taken no more than a few steps when a soft creak had her whirl around, eyes snapping to the door.
Her heart jumped into her throat, and she felt her body tense as the door swung open, revealing none other than Mr. Sharpe.
For a seemingly endless moment, Christina simply stared at him, certain that he was some kind of mirage. Perhaps her mind was torturing her with the image of him, punishing her for retreating into the library on her sister’s wedding day. She ought to be out there, congratulating Leonora and assisting her and her husband in tending to their guests. Instead, she had fled, all thoughts focused upon herself and that sense of powerlessness that always came over her when she thought of Lady Hartmore’s intention to see her daughter married to Mr. Sharpe.
That same feeling seeped into her bones even now as she looked into those bright green eyes of his. A small smile lingered upon his lips, and her gaze swept over him, taking note of his slightly tousled hair and his less than perfectly tied cravat. In fact, it looked as though he had been tugging upon it repeatedly, unfamiliar with wearing such a piece of clothing.
Lifting her chin, Christina fought down that overpowering sense of inevitability—as though she had no say in who would win her heart—and steered her thoughts toward more worthwhile emotions. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him in a way that would have made a true gentleman immediately retreat from the room.
However, Mr. Sharpe was not a gentleman, true or otherwise, was he? Christina had known this long before this day, and so it came as no surprise that instead of leaving, the blasted man closed the door and stepped toward her. “I came here in search of a moment of solace,” he told her in a tone of voice that made her doubt his every word. “And you?”
Christina lifted her chin another fraction as he continued to move toward her, for the way he was looking at her stirred a deeply unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Leave!” she instructed haughtily. “You are not to be here! If we are found together—” She clamped her lips shut, momentarily thrown by the way the right corner of his mouth curved upward as though…as though… “This is not proper!” she shot at him, trying her best to ignore the slight flutter coming to her heart.
The man’s smile deepened as his gaze dipped down to touch upon her shoeless feet. “You seem to be the expert on such matters, or am I wrong?” Leisurely, he strolled closer, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that made Christina shiver. “May I ask you a question?”
Christina’s gaze narrowed as she regarded him curiously, upset with herself for wanting him to speak. Why was it that she cared what he thought? “If you must.”
Again, that irritatingly endearing smile danced over his lips. “Do you ever not say what you think?”
Christina felt her nostrils flare. “Oh, believe me, I am holding back. If I were to say what I thought then—” Her sense of decorum fought with an almost desperate need to lash out at him, tearing at her and making her indecisive. Christina hated being indecisive!
“Why is it that you seem to hate the very sight of me?” Mr. Sharpe asked rather unexpectedly, another stride carrying him closer, close enough that Christina could see flecks of gold dance in his green eyes.
Christina huffed out an exasperated breath. “How dare you ask me that? You know very well why!” Staring at him, she shook her head. “Have I not made my sentiments on this subject abundantly cl—?”
“You have, indeed,” Mr. Sharpe interrupted her, another step bringing him ever closer, his eyes fixed upon hers, something daring and challenging twinkling in their depths. “Yet why this hatred? I can understand your displeasure with my presence here in London as well as my intentions of offering marriage to your friend; however, the way you’re looking at me right now tells me that there is something else that fuels you.”
Christina swallowed as he looked down at her in a way no one else ever had before. It was as though he could see inside of her and knew precisely what she thought and felt.
“Something you refuse to admit to,” Mr. Sharpe continue
d, now barely an arm’s length between them. “Tell me now,” he dared her, that irritating smile once more upon his lips as though he knew precisely what she would do. “Tell me what you’re thinking of when you look at me.”
Christina swallowed hard, desperately trying to recover her voice. “When I look at you,” Christina told him, hardening her voice as much as she could, surprised to find it a task far from ease, “I see a man undeserving of my friend. I see—”
Mr. Sharpe scoffed. “For how much longer do you intend to hold onto that excuse?” he teased, leaning closer as his gaze drilled into hers as though he could dig out the truth despite her lack of cooperation.
“Excuse?” Christina snapped, welcoming the wave of anger that washed through her at his condescending words. “You might not possess any sense of loyalty, which, of course, is not surprising considering your upbringing; however, Sarah is my dearest friend. She is almost like a sister to me, and I will do whatever I must to ensure that—”
“Whatever you must?” Mr. Sharpe echoed, his lips stretching into a teasing smile. “That reminds me; you still owe me an answer.”
Christina frowned. “An answer? An answer to what?”
He chuckled. “Do you not recall our conversation the other day?” The smile upon his face told Christina that he recalled every detail of it, and she could feel a slight flush steal onto her cheeks. “Perhaps you do,” he mused, his eyesight clearly impeccable.
Ignoring the urge to rush from the room, Christina squared her shoulders and held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by a man of low birth. “You have no right to be here. This is my sister’s wedding day, and I doubt that anyone in my family has invited you. Leave! Leave this house! Leave London! Go back to where you came from!”
