the driver to stop this very instant.
Gwynneth offered no resistance as Thorne gathered her to him and tipped her chin upward. Gazing at him with a charming mixture of reluctance and longing, she whispered, "Are you going to kiss me now?"
He traced her bow-shaped mouth with his thumb, his nostrils flaring at the innocent fragrance of castile soap and lemon verbena. "Yes, sweeting," he said huskily, then added as a caution to himself, "but no more than you like, I promise."
With a trusting nod, Gwynneth offered him her lips.
* * *
Morning found Thorne up well before the sun without having slept, and in no mood for polite society or wedding talk--or any further dalliance with his libido, which had been tested to the point of pain as he kissed Gwynneth at length in the coach. He'd been a fool to think he could give her a taste of intimacy without wanting more for himself.
He scrawled a credible note of apology for his early departure, adding that he looked forward to Radleigh's and Gwynneth's arrival at Wycliffe Hall a few days before the wedding. He hired Radleigh's driver to take him into the heart of town, but once the coach had disappeared down Oxford Street, Thorne walked briskly past the livery stable and headed toward the park district. It was nearly sunrise. He kept his head down and his tricorne pulled low, although few souls were about so early on a Sunday morning.
Some thirty minutes later he dashed up the steps of a well-appointed mansion, set his valise down and dropped the brass knocker twice, silently thanking Providence for the tall hedgerows surrounding the place. He had never been desperate enough to come here without cover of darkness.
Until today.
A craggy-faced woman in a white cap cracked the door open and looked him up and down with a frown. "Well? State your business."
"I beg your pardon for the early hour, but I must speak with Madame Claire."
The frown turned to a glower. "She don't conduct business at this hour, 'specially on Sunday, which is why Bess ain't around to answer the door. Bloomin' gall you got! Come back after noon." Closing the door, the woman spotted the folded pound note in Thorne's extended fingers, glanced over her shoulder, and snatched it from him. "And who might you be?" she murmured.
"Adams. Tell your mistress that Adams has come from Oxford."
"Wait here." She shut the door.
Thorne leaned against the portico and watched the eastern sky turn a brazen pink. There would be rain today. He hoped Wycliffe was in its path, the herdsmen needing a night off their watch and the fields needing water.
The door flew open. The same servant gave him a simpering smile. "Do come in, Mister Adams. Madame will be with you straightaway."
"Madame" appeared without her usual mask of kohl, rouge, and powder, but was no less gracious for having to rise so early. "I've taken the liberté of waking our Katy, Monsieur Adams...I hope I was not présomptueux ." She arched over-plucked eyebrows.
"You presume correctly, Madame. I shall be more than happy to see Katy."
She seemed amused. "Katy will be more than happy to see you , monsieur." Her nod indicated the curved staircase. "I expect she is ready for you now. Come."
The provocative words seemed to hang in the air. By the time Thorne followed Madame Claire's swaying skirts to the top of the stairs, the mere sight of Katy's chamber door was enough to stir his blood.
He entered the dim room and quietly closed the door, then stood still, his back to the bed, and drew a deep, silent breath.
"Would you mind opening the draperies, Mister Adams?" Her voice sounded light and melodic on the surface, but Thorne detected an underlying tremor. "I know how you fancy the light," she added, reminding him he was no stranger to her.
The bed linens rustled. Thorne's nostrils flared. He spoke without turning around. "You've changed your perfume."
"Do you not like it?"
"'Tis just that I've a particular fondness for the other." He moved to a window
Gwynneth offered no resistance as Thorne gathered her to him and tipped her chin upward. Gazing at him with a charming mixture of reluctance and longing, she whispered, "Are you going to kiss me now?"
He traced her bow-shaped mouth with his thumb, his nostrils flaring at the innocent fragrance of castile soap and lemon verbena. "Yes, sweeting," he said huskily, then added as a caution to himself, "but no more than you like, I promise."
With a trusting nod, Gwynneth offered him her lips.
* * *
Morning found Thorne up well before the sun without having slept, and in no mood for polite society or wedding talk--or any further dalliance with his libido, which had been tested to the point of pain as he kissed Gwynneth at length in the coach. He'd been a fool to think he could give her a taste of intimacy without wanting more for himself.
He scrawled a credible note of apology for his early departure, adding that he looked forward to Radleigh's and Gwynneth's arrival at Wycliffe Hall a few days before the wedding. He hired Radleigh's driver to take him into the heart of town, but once the coach had disappeared down Oxford Street, Thorne walked briskly past the livery stable and headed toward the park district. It was nearly sunrise. He kept his head down and his tricorne pulled low, although few souls were about so early on a Sunday morning.
Some thirty minutes later he dashed up the steps of a well-appointed mansion, set his valise down and dropped the brass knocker twice, silently thanking Providence for the tall hedgerows surrounding the place. He had never been desperate enough to come here without cover of darkness.
Until today.
A craggy-faced woman in a white cap cracked the door open and looked him up and down with a frown. "Well? State your business."
"I beg your pardon for the early hour, but I must speak with Madame Claire."
The frown turned to a glower. "She don't conduct business at this hour, 'specially on Sunday, which is why Bess ain't around to answer the door. Bloomin' gall you got! Come back after noon." Closing the door, the woman spotted the folded pound note in Thorne's extended fingers, glanced over her shoulder, and snatched it from him. "And who might you be?" she murmured.
"Adams. Tell your mistress that Adams has come from Oxford."
"Wait here." She shut the door.
Thorne leaned against the portico and watched the eastern sky turn a brazen pink. There would be rain today. He hoped Wycliffe was in its path, the herdsmen needing a night off their watch and the fields needing water.
The door flew open. The same servant gave him a simpering smile. "Do come in, Mister Adams. Madame will be with you straightaway."
"Madame" appeared without her usual mask of kohl, rouge, and powder, but was no less gracious for having to rise so early. "I've taken the liberté of waking our Katy, Monsieur Adams...I hope I was not présomptueux ." She arched over-plucked eyebrows.
"You presume correctly, Madame. I shall be more than happy to see Katy."
She seemed amused. "Katy will be more than happy to see you , monsieur." Her nod indicated the curved staircase. "I expect she is ready for you now. Come."
The provocative words seemed to hang in the air. By the time Thorne followed Madame Claire's swaying skirts to the top of the stairs, the mere sight of Katy's chamber door was enough to stir his blood.
He entered the dim room and quietly closed the door, then stood still, his back to the bed, and drew a deep, silent breath.
"Would you mind opening the draperies, Mister Adams?" Her voice sounded light and melodic on the surface, but Thorne detected an underlying tremor. "I know how you fancy the light," she added, reminding him he was no stranger to her.
The bed linens rustled. Thorne's nostrils flared. He spoke without turning around. "You've changed your perfume."
"Do you not like it?"
"'Tis just that I've a particular fondness for the other." He moved to a window
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