Three Weeks With Lady X(42)

"You're just in time," Thorn said. "Her nursemaid is waiting upstairs to give Rose a bath."

Vander came around the cart, and before India quite knew what was  happening, his hands spanned her waist and he was swinging her to the  ground.

"Come along, then," Thorn said impatiently.

Vander looked down at her for a second longer, then his hands dropped and he and India followed Thorn inside.

Once Vander and Rose had been introduced, Vander launched into a story  about a faraway land where paper dolls walked and talked like anyone  else. "Their mama is called Lady Cuttenclip," he told Rose. "She doesn't  just create dolls. She makes them cunning little hats, pelisses,  shoes."

"Ladies do not, as a matter of course, make clothing," Rose observed. "Is everyone in this land of the same status?"

Vander looked distinctly startled. "Surely we need not be so  doctrinaire? My sisters are assuredly ladies, and yet they spent hours  designing gowns for their dolls."

"Did you design clothing for paper dolls?" Rose asked, turning to India.

"No, but that was merely because I had no paints as a child. I would have enjoyed it."

Rose looked at her thoughtfully and then turned back to Vander. "How  does Lady Cuttenclip acquire paints for her dolls if the world is made  of paper? Do they trade paper coins?"

"Yes, of course," Vander said.

"I have very little interest in being a modiste," Rose announced. "I  should rather create a paper house with a nursery and a fireplace with  burning logs."

"The shelves will be full of tiny Greek texts, of course," Thorn said, laughing.

Rose looked up at India. "Perhaps you could help, since you had no  paints when you were small. If you wished, you could make a gown, but I  shall make a schoolroom."

India found herself promising to come back at teatime the following day.  Vander invited himself, pointing out that since Lady Cuttenclip was his  creation, they couldn't do without him.

Rose smiled at that, and India realized that she had dimples. Two of  them. She wasn't a pretty child, per se, but those dimples . . .

"My papa used to tell me a story at night," Rose said, turning to India again. "Mr. Dautry isn't good at storytelling."

"I would be happy to tell you a bedtime story," India said, holding out  her hand. "I expect that Rose's nursemaid is waiting, gentlemen, so why  don't you return to the house, and I will join you later? I worry that  the other guests will find it odd that the three of us have  disappeared."                       
       
           



       

"You are not going about the grounds by yourself at night," Thorn stated.

"I've been doing precisely that for weeks," India pointed out.

Vander intervened. "I am happy to wait for you, Lady Xenobia. Thorn, your parents will be wondering where you are."

"It would be quite improper for you to escort India," Thorn said,  folding his arms across his chest. "In fact, you shouldn't have  accompanied her here without a chaperone."

"Yet it wouldn't be improper for you?" Vander said, clearly irritated.

"No."

Since Thorn didn't elaborate, India said, "Mr. Dautry and I are such old  friends that we don't concern ourselves with propriety."

"You are feeling protective?" Vander asked Thorn.

"No one is going to compromise India under my roof," Thorn said.

This was barked more than stated, but Vander's eyes cleared and he gave  Thorn one of those slaps on the back that men give each other. "I was  wrong, earlier," he said. "I apologize."

"We'll bid you good-night, gentlemen," India said. She took Rose away,  but not before she heard Vander saying that Thorn had done him the  greatest favor of his life.

She smiled all the way up the stairs and through story time, a new  experience for her inasmuch as that her mother had never contemplated  such a thing. Taking inspiration from Vander's paper dolls, she came up  with a world of civilized rabbits. Runnebunny was a rascal bunny,  hopping all over the place and stealing everyone's cabbage. But he also  had the longest ears and the blackest eyes of any rabbit in the county.

"Your story is rather babyish, but I do like Mr. Runnebunny," Rose said sleepily. "He's just like Mr. Dautry."

"Hmmm," India said, pulling up Rose's covers. "Well, tomorrow, I'll tell  you more about Lord Parsley, and I'm sure you'll like him just as much.  He's far more civilized, and you know that's important in a bunny."

"I don't care," Rose said, snuggling down into her covers, her doll in  the crook of her arm. "Antigone and I think that it's better that a  bunny be able to steal lots of cabbage to ensure that his baby bunnies  don't go hungry."

India lingered for a moment, thinking that she had inadvertently managed  to make her story appallingly revealing. Then she kissed the sleeping  child on the cheek and headed down the stairs.





Chapter Twenty-three

Thorn drank two glasses of brandy while he waited for India. He had  never felt so damned undecided. In point of fact, he was never  undecided. Ever. Generally, he decided which path was best, and took it.

He knew instinctively that Lala was the woman for him. She was warm and  sweet and uncomplicated. It was unfortunate that she was also a little  boring, especially now that she had learned about infant mortality;  Thorn was completely uninterested, but he could live with it.

Her affection would bind his family together. Moreover, her concern with  infant mortality suggested that she would make every effort to nourish  and raise their children in the best possible fashion.

India, on the other hand, was like a dissected map, one of those new  puzzles she had bought for Rose. No piece seemed to fit with another,  and half of them hinted at some unknown country, rich, deep, and  undiscovered.

Even though he had deliberately invited Vander to his house party, when  his friend had thanked him for introducing him to India, his eyes  betraying an intensity of feeling that Thorn had only seen when Vander  was at the races . . . well, then Thorn had contemplated killing him.

Ridiculous.

He was losing his mind. He took another gulp of brandy. It was probably  all a matter of competition with Vander. India was one of the most  beautiful women he'd ever seen-and she was the daughter of a marquess,  intelligent, witty, and rich to boot.

Not to mention the fact that he'd never enjoyed shagging a woman more.  Simply looking at her made him fall into a black well where there was  nothing but her smell, her taste, the stroke of her fingers.

One should never succumb to one's lowest instincts. Thorn had learned to  curb his desires, to relegate strong emotions to a category labeled  "interesting." Lala would be his wife, whereas India was, and India  would be, his friend.

It was odd, having a woman as a friend, but if she married Vander, he would see-

Before he knew it, he was out of the chair, his body taut as a  bowstring. His imagination had fed him a picture of India in that blue  nightdress, smiling at Vander on their wedding night. With a curse, he  hurled his glass directly into the fireplace, shattering it.                       
       
           



       

"What on earth are you doing?"

He turned to find India in the doorway, looking confused. The rich smell  of brandy spread through the room. In one stride he was face to face  with her, and then she was in his arms. He didn't bother with civility,  not this time. He didn't coax her lips open, but took her mouth with all  the pent-up force of a man who's just imagined the unimaginable.

His tongue conquered her mouth, claimed, possessed, made it his own. His. His.

Not Vander's. Never Vander's.

One arm clamped tight around her and then he was tasting her, tasting  India, and her mouth was sweeter than he remembered, their kiss hotter,  wetter, deeper. By the time he dragged his mouth away, he had backed her  against the wall, his hips grinding into her softness, one hand bound  in that gorgeous hair. His body was roaring with heat and fire, muscles  taut, ready for the command to take her to bed. Hell, take her to the  floor, to the sofa, even just against the wall.

Just take her.

He looked down to dazed eyes and cherry lips. Reality came crashing into  his mind, and he jolted back with a curse. India swayed precariously  when he let her go, so he reached out and caught her, carrying her to  the sofa.

He meant to sit opposite, but somehow he ended up with her in his lap.

She hadn't yet said a word.

"India," he said, and hesitated.

She turned her head, her lips only a breath away from his. "What was  that?" Her voice was as unsteady as her legs had been, and he thought  she was trembling. Just a little, but trembling nonetheless. "We agreed  there could be no repeat of last night."