Three Weeks With Lady X(49)

She blinked, apparently shocked. Did she think that he would simply saunter away after that?

Finally she put that damned book to the side and came to her feet.  "Thorn, I will not marry a man due to a momentary foolishness. You are  essentially promised to Lala. You have spoken to her father, whether he  declined to answer or no. She is dreaming of your future life together.  The fact that I acted like a whore does not compel you to marry me."

He was frozen for a moment, then he found himself standing before her,  hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. "Do not ever say  something like that about yourself. You are nothing like a whore."

India stared back at him, her eyes flat. "Well, it's true that I didn't  charge you for my services. But I don't think that Lady Rainsford will  care about that distinction."

"Lady Rainsford is a monstrous woman," he bit out.

"She is your future mother-in-law," India observed. "Our unfortunate  behavior does not and should not compel you to marry me-and neither does  it mean that I am compelled to marry you. You appear to have forgotten  to propose, but you needn't bother. My answer is no."

Thorn felt astonishment roaring down his spine. "Your answer is yes."

"Do not think for a second that you can force me into marriage!"

India turned blindly away from Thorn's black expression and walked to  the mantel. The truth could not be avoided. He deserved better than she,  someone sweet and soft. She swallowed hard.                       
       
           



       

And she deserved someone who loved her, not someone forced by his sense  of honor to marry her. Tears threatened again, but she managed to choke  them down.

"India," Thorn said from behind her, the bite in his voice easing.

She had to cut him off before he persuaded her, because it would only be  his conscience talking. She refused to be sacrificed on the altar of  any man's conscience.

Not when it would change the course of her whole life. Not . . . not  loving him the way she loved him, especially if he grew to hate her  because he lost his "ideal" wife.

He would hate her, if not now, then later, after the pleasure of illicit  encounters in hallways had worn off. She would rather die than live  that way.

"At any rate," she said, steeling her voice. "I've changed my mind. I am  not giving up my profession. I have decided to accept an offer from the  Prince of Wales; I shall renovate his private quarters at the Royal  Pavilion in Brighton."

His eyes narrowed. "You will not go anywhere near that fat lecher's chambers."

She gripped the mantelpiece, using it to keep herself upright as she  turned to face him again. "I shall go where I wish. And I would be daft  not to accept the job. Perhaps after that, I shall marry-but never  because of a moment's indiscretion. My parents were neglectful, as you  know. But they loved each other. I didn't realize until recently how  important that was, and I shall certainly not marry a man who doesn't  even think he has to propose."

"I would have proposed." It looked as if his lips were scarcely moving.

"When? After we were married? You walked into this room and informed me  that you had sent for a special license. Acceptance on my part had  nothing to do with it. You felt that there was no reason to ask me,  because our marriage wouldn't have been about us. It would be about the  possibility of a child."

He didn't deny it. She hated that his tacit agreement hurt.

"Please leave," she said.

Thorn was staring at the carpet, but after a moment, he looked up, his  eyes burning with frustration. "You will not defy me in this, India. Our  irresponsible actions have left us with no alternative. Regardless of  what you say, you cannot deny the possibility that we conceived a  child."

That, more than anything, demonstrated that he didn't love her. To him,  she was no more than a woman who engaged in irresponsible behavior. A  sob nearly forced itself from her throat before she choked it back.

There was only one thing that would stop Thorn from marrying her, she knew. She would have to say it. That horrible thing.

"You are doing this because of the possibility of a child. As I have  told you, I am quite certain that there is no child. But if there  is"-She hesitated, her heart beating so hard that she felt faint.-"I  will do as your mother did."

She saw the blood drain from his face. "Are you saying that you will  leave the child to me, just as my mother left me with my father?" he  asked incredulously.

She nodded jerkily, uncertain whether her expression betrayed the truth  of how utterly an action like that would destroy her. Surely he wouldn't  believe her capable of that.

But no, she could read condemnation in his face. He knew her no better  than did Lord Dibbleshire. Like his lordship, Thorn accepted whatever  she said.

He would hate her now, she understood that. But it had to be.

"I am sure that you will be an excellent father," she said, forcing the words out of her mouth. "Rose adores you."

Thorn's gaze burned into her. "You love Rose, although you've met her  only a few times. You would never leave a child, your own child. You are  lying."

"I assure you that I am not." She almost turned away again, but she  straightened her backbone instead. "You do not know me, Thorn, nor do  you love me," she said, letting go of the mantel and standing tall,  hating that she had to swim in such selfish, shallow waters to  accomplish what had to be done. "I have earned the right to marry  someone who loves me. I deserve a man who treasures me."

"I treasure you!" His voice was sharp.

Like a flash fire in a poorly run kitchen, fury and anger and utter  despair raced through her. "You made love to me without protection! You  made love to me virtually in front of the woman you plan to marry, and  where any servant might have happened by. You do not treasure me!" There  was a moment's silence while she pulled her crumbling self together  again. "It is not entirely your fault. I have repeatedly made stupid  choices."

His eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"                       
       
           



       

"Did I really seem experienced to you?" She whispered those words  because they were burning in the back of her throat. "Did I truly?"

He swallowed, and she saw his throat ripple. "You were a virgin?"

She didn't answer.

"There was no blood."

"I bled for two days after the first time I rode a horse without a saddle. I was twelve."

"You lied to me?"

She felt her mouth curl into an ironic smile. "I wanted you. And you  would not have . . . have taken me if you thought me experienced, would  you?"

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.