His silence was the answer.

“You see,” she continued steadily, “I wanted you enough to lie to you. But I would like to marry someone who knows me. Who loves me. A man who does not barge into my room and make demands of me or, for that matter, tup me against the wall.”

“So you’ll take Vander?” His voice was a growl, but his eyes were direct.

She raised her chin. “Perhaps.”

“He doesn’t love you.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“He wants you! That’s not the same as loving you.”

She had to swallow and clench her teeth in order to keep from crying. She nodded. “I know that. After all, you and I wanted each other. And look where that got me. Please leave, Thorn.”

Her throat closed, and she really couldn’t say anything else. It was just as well that he dragged his hand through his hair, raked her with another furious glance, and left without a word.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Thorn avoided India the following day by spending most of it working in his library; he even took luncheon there. “Working” was not precisely accurate: he kept losing himself in thought, staring blindly at the desk as ink blotted whatever letter he was trying to write.

He could scarcely believe India’s claim that she would give up her child. And yet, every time he decided it had to be a lie, her greatest lie . . . his common sense, his reason, his understanding of the world, sent him reeling back the other direction, toward believing that she told the truth.

India was evidently a version of his mother: a woman who sampled erotic pleasures and moved on, leaving a child behind in the dust caused by her departure. Like India, she’d had a profession that defined her. That she loved. They were both brilliant, creative women who put their professions before their personal lives.

And yet . . .

He thought of the conversation during which India had told him of her parents’ leaving for London. The way she had wept on his shoulder, her shuddering sobs telling him that she’d never revealed that pain before.

Thorn knew how it felt to be abandoned, whether unthinkingly, as his father had done to him, or selfishly, as his mother had. A woman marked by that pain would never—could never—give away her baby.

He simply did not believe it. By the time the afternoon was drawing to a close, he was convinced India had lied to him. He had gone over every minute, every second of the time they’d spent together, reviewed every word they’d exchanged, her every glance.

And he’d thought through their conversation of the night before. She believed he wanted to marry her only because of the child they might have conceived. Perhaps she truly believed that he would be happier married to Lala. Certainly, she felt guilty because Lala was wandering around looking like a dazed lamb in love.

He supposed that if he were a gentleman, he would feel guilty too. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. He had never promised a damned thing to Laetitia Rainsford. In fact, they had never even spoken in private, other than two encounters in Kensington Gardens, and a carriage ride. Every time he came close to her, she shied away.

Even if he hadn’t met India, he would have been reconsidering that union, because Lala’s mother wasn’t merely unpleasant; she was loathsome. He didn’t want his children to have a grandmother like that. Besides, he was only one bawdy joke away from Lady Rainsford’s rejection of his proposal.

No, he didn’t feel guilty. And if India felt guilty, she could find a different husband for Lala. Hell, he’d be happy to supply a dowry. There was no question that India would be as talented at matchmaking as she was at organizing.

He went upstairs to bathe, still thinking hard. Being married to India would be like trying to harness a storm at sea. She was one of the few people in the world who had no fear of him, a woman who whipped around to face him, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, and told him exactly what she thought.

He grinned at the thought of it.

“Cravat, sir?” his valet offered. Thorn nodded. He might as well dress properly when asking a lady to marry him. She wanted a proper proposal; he could do that.

He planned to kiss her before uttering a word, though. If he merely touched her arm, a little shudder would go through her body. Her eyes would darken, and her tongue would touch her lips, preparing for him. And after he raised his mouth, she would cling to him, her eyes hazy.

If he kissed her before proposing, she wouldn’t have the willpower to resist him.

With that thought, he glanced down and wrenched off the coat he had just put on. “I’ll wear the dark blue one instead,” he told his valet. It was longer and would cover what needed to be covered. She wasn’t the only one caught in a sea storm, after all. He only had to glance at her, or realize she was in a room, and his prick would rise. And stay up too.

She did something to him, something that eroded his control and turned him into a frenzied brute with one idea in mind. He quickly buttoned the longer coat before his valet could reach out to help.

There was a scratch on the door and his valet opened it. A footman held out a small silver tray. “A letter for Mr. Dautry.”

Thorn held out his hand, recognizing India’s handwriting. It was bold and delicate at the same time, ornate and yet easily legible. Very like India herself.

Dear Mr. Dautry,

I did not want to lose any time in informing you that the event about which we both felt concern has not come to pass. I trust you can find another use for the special license.

With all best wishes,

Lady Xenobia

He stared at the sheet for a moment before realizing that it didn’t make a damned bit of difference. India wasn’t pregnant this time, but she would be the next, or the time after that.

If he had to pull her into that alcove and take her again sans sheath, he would. In fact, he would do it without hesitation. Obviously, she was upset by his mutton-fisted proposal, and she’d come up with a deception in order to put him off. He had to make it clear immediately that he saw through her ploy and wanted her for herself, not for the baby who didn’t exist.

He ran his fingers through his hair and walked from the room to look for her. She wasn’t in her chamber, so he went downstairs.

She was in neither of the drawing rooms, nor in the ballroom, dining room, or breakfast room. Where the hell was she?

He was heading toward the servants’ door to see if she was counting the soup spoons when he heard a raised voice outside the house, unmistakably the arrogant tenor of Lady Rainsford.

He followed the clamor to the front door, from which position he could see the lady in question standing in the drive, holding forth to an audience made up of Fleming, at the top of the steps, and his father, stepmother, and Vander at the bottom.

Just then his father shifted to one side, revealing two more characters in this little drama: India was there too, her face defiant, holding Rose tightly to her side.

“I know evidence of depravity when I see it,” Lady Rainsford was saying, her voice shriller than usual.

Damnation. He ran down the steps. Eleanor reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Stay calm,” she said in a low voice.

Lady Rainsford’s raisin-sized eyes narrowed at his approach. “There he is! I suppose you hoped to conceal this child, Mr. Dautry? The evidence of your debased and corrupt nature!”

India watched Thorn approach with an overwhelming sense of dread. She had dealt with every sort of household crisis; she had soothed women driven to hysterics by their husbands, servants, and children.