Rafe—Lord Luxborough, his lordship, whatever she should call him—had tried to avoid such pleasures, and now she understood why. Because once those delicious sensations slid under one’s skin and into one’s blood, they became all consuming. Even now, Thea did not want to be rid of them. She wanted more.
Which would lead to nothing but her ruin—when her ruin was precisely what she sought to undo. Besides, Rafe didn’t want her or care about her. He didn’t even know her real name. Likely, when he learned she was not truly his wife, he would merely shrug, grumble about the inconvenience, and replace her with someone else.
She would not tell herself stories that had no foundation in truth. The truth was, this was not her home and Rafe was not her husband. The truth was, Thea must leave for London tonight, but she could not travel alone, so required Gilbert’s help.
An inquiry of a passing servant revealed that Mr. Gilbert was in the ballroom with Mrs. Flores. Unable to fathom what possible business Gilbert and Martha could have together, Thea headed for the ballroom.
Where she still could not determine what business they had together.
The cavernous room was cool, despite the sunlight that poured through the open curtains and sparkled in the crystals of the chandeliers and sconces. By one window sat Martha, a notebook in her lap, pencil in hand. She was periodically frowning out the window and then looking back at Gilbert, who was…waltzing?
Gilbert was a broad man, whose battered face told the story of his past as a champion prizefighter, which made the gracefulness of his dance all the more surprising.
Or perhaps not, Thea mused. After all, a boxer did have to be light on his feet. The only real surprises were that he even knew how to waltz, and that he was dancing at all, given it was afternoon and he was alone. His arms were positioned as if they held an imaginary partner, his eyes were closed, and his face wore an expression of dreamy bliss. As he circled nearer, she heard him humming a slow waltz in a pitch-perfect baritone.
Thea slipped across the room and crouched beside Martha. Martha’s dark eyes narrowed as they roamed over her face, and Thea feared that the effects of the kiss were evident. Cheeks heating, she clutched her cloak more tightly and reminded herself that everyone believed she was married.
“What is Mr. Gilbert doing?” Thea whispered.
“Mr. Gilbert is dancing.”
“Of course. Um. Why is Mr. Gilbert dancing?”
Martha tapped her pencil on her notebook and shook her head. “It’s astonishing, sí? It takes everyone differently.”
“It?”
“I do not have a good name for it. It’s based on bhang, but such modifications I have made, it has become something else.”
Thea’s heart sank. “He is intoxicated?”
“Mr. Gilbert volunteered to help test my medicines. The purpose is to ease pain, and I am trying to remove the intoxicating effects, but without success. It seems to make people behave more like themselves. When Sally tested it, she laughed and laughed. I rambled for hours about natural philosophy.”
And Rafe, Thea recalled, had been sweet and funny and affectionate.
“Claro, that is what intoxicants do,” Martha added. “We wear masks to survive in society, and intoxicants allow us to remove those masks again.”
Thea looked back at Gilbert. With his grace and bliss, he made a lovely sight.
“He is in quite a state,” she said. “When will he recover?”
“By tomorrow morning, he’ll be himself again.”
“I see.”
If Gilbert was intoxicated, he could not accompany her to London, and Thea could not go alone. Thea wasn’t leaving Brinkley End today, then. So she took a seat and watched Gilbert dance, feeling her body tingle with the memory of Rafe’s touch, and her heart relax, as if she’d had a reprieve.
Chapter 16
The next day, Rafe crawled out of bed after a night that involved rather less sleep than he would have liked, and rather more thinking of Thea, of reliving the feel of her in his arms and dreaming of making love with her, as he could never do. He intended to go straight to the glasshouse, but stopped to terrorize a passing footman with a barked demand: Had someone gone for the post? The footman stammered that yes, someone had gone, someone always went, but he could check again if his lordship desired. His lordship, who knew he was being a pain in the neck, said only that he wished to be informed the minute the post arrived.
“The very minute, you hear?” he snarled. The footman agreed, and Rafe stayed in his study and wore out the carpet.
The very minute Rafe got his bundle of letters, he tore them open. A letter from his solicitor confirmed the trustees had released the funds and Rafe could safely end his farcical marriage; a postscript noted that Mr. Knight had not yet handed over Miss Knight’s dowry. Yet another letter from the Royal Household demanding that Rafe—oh, who cared what the Crown wanted now. He tossed it aside and ripped open others.