Thea, the guilt in her eyes not enough to temper his pleasure at seeing her. Despite the stormy night, she fairly sparkled in the pelisse he’d given her. Thea was right—the sleeves were overly long. She worried one with several bare fingers while her other hand simply trembled, her arm crooked around that of her companion.
“Thea,” he said again, dumbly. Numbly. What was she doing here? At his home? And why did the notion, instead of annoying him as it certainly would have with Good-Riddance-Former Mistress, only seem perfect because it was Thea?
“Mrs. Hurwell?” The elderly fellow smiled at them both. “Is this your Lord Tremayne? And answering his own door?”
Mrs. Hurwell?
It sounded all wrong. How he’d started to hate that name. It wasn’t right, not at all.
It should be Mrs. Holbrook, Lady Tremayne.
His lady. And he should swell her trim belly with child.
A child they’d both love whether he or she stammered or whistled or came out plaid.
“My lord.” She raised one hand as though to ward him off and Daniel shook himself free of the fantasy with a strangled sound. When had all the air evaporated from his entryway?
“Please forgive our late and unannounced arrival,” she began, and shot a worried look over her shoulder. A flash of lightning illuminated Swift John hovering protectively behind her. “This is Mr. Taft. I was given to understand you desired to hear him speak but that your favor for Lord Wylde prevented it.”
At the introduction, the other man leaned forward and caught sight of Daniel’s bruised phiz (Ellie had yet to deliver that requested batch of cream). “My gracious, my lord. I do hope the other fellow looks worse.”
“Lord Tremayne is a pugilist,” Thea explained to her companion while somehow managing to shoot Daniel a private glare that would have smote a lesser man than he. But still, he heard the pride in her voice as she defended him.
Him! For childishly fighting to avoid the demons of his past.
Was she an angel, perhaps? An angel masquerading as a mistress? One sent to rescue him from all his demons?
Her subdued voice went on, something about timing and birthdays, but all Daniel heard were her lilting tones. All he saw was the woman never far from his thoughts. All he wanted was to snatch her up and escape with her to his chambers.
As the man beside her chimed in, Daniel finally grasped all they were saying.
This was Mr. Taft, famed orrery expert, who had somehow concluded that Daniel was a suitor for the hand of his mistress. Which would be comical if it wasn’t so close to the truth.
Which also explained why Thea looked so miserably guilty and kept trying to edge back. (If it wasn’t for Taft’s fatherly patting of her hand upon his forearm, she might have succeeded.)
Mr. Taft, offering to help fix Daniel’s machine. The very machine his grandfather had consulted with Taft about back in the 1770s.
This was Ellie’s surprise?
And it brought Thea to his doorstep?
More than a bit in awe of the older man, never mind that he resembled a grinning, grey-tufted elf, Daniel felt his jaw tightening characteristically. Manners bade he recall himself sufficiently to usher them in.
“P-please,” he cleared his throat, praying they hadn’t noticed the slip, “come in, b-both of you.”
Damn! Was it nerves that made it so bad? Taft’s presence? Or Thea’s? Or was he simply overly tired after the disappointing showing at the committee meeting?
Taft was waiting for Thea to precede him, but like a giant, unmovable oak, she appeared rooted in place.
“Thea?” Daniel stepped outside and forcibly shepherded her across the threshold. She gave him a grateful look. Weighted with more guilt.
Using the excuse of helping her with her pelisse, he whispered in her ear. “’Tis fine, really. I’m—” Pleased. Delighted. Blighted by your beauty. “Stay with my—blsng.” Blessing got smothered against her nape when he took advantage of the situation to press his lips to her soft, sweet skin. To inhale her unique and calming fragrance. Essence of Thea.
When his lips lingered, he swore she gave a silent moan and leaned into him. Then she nodded, straightening as she pulled her arm from the long sleeve, only to reveal a delightful new dress. He smiled his approval, reluctant to release her, but beyond curious about this unforeseen visit.
After Lord Tremayne asked a single question about that afternoon’s lecture he’d missed, which started Mr. Taft on a whirlwind of excited explanations, the men headed up the staircase.
Buttons nudged Thea.
She left off staring at the opulent chandelier overhead. “Aye?”
“Go on with you,” Buttons told her in a low voice. “Look there—” He nodded toward the stairs. “His lordship’s waiting for you.”
He was, standing stalwart and strong, gaze intense, hand outstretched. And that’s when she noticed his attire. Clothed the most casually she’d ever seen him—save for in her bedchamber—his thick hair was finger-tousled, linen shirt billowing and dark breeches thigh-hugging. No tailcoat. No waistcoat. Neckcloth loose, practically cast aside.
Though he stood there, beckoning to her, she had the uncanny feeling the tiled marble floor she stood on was flinging energy spikes through her slippers and straight up her legs, spikes that loudly proclaimed You don’t belong here. You don’t belong!
Lord Tremayne’s townhouse put hers to shame. Everything around her exuded tasteful elegance on the grandest of scales. This townhouse could swallow her entire abode several times over—and that was just for the appetizer.
But it was the man himself who created the longing to stay.
The man with the discolored face and charming smile, the broad shoulders subdued by nothing more than quality linen. The man whose quiet but decisively spoken, “Thea?” tamed those condemning floor spikes into ones of Welcome.
The motion concealed by her long dress, she stamped her feet. Yet still, it came again: Welcome.
Flashing Buttons a grateful smile, she climbed the stairs after them, glad more than ever for her new dress when Lord Tremayne took stock of it and nodded as she came abreast. “Lovely.”
That
