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.
But it was all different when the tempest resulted from a decision she had made; after all, she had suggested Thorn keep Rose hidden away. The dower house had been her idea. She felt paralyzed, as if she had somehow found herself on a public stage without being told her lines.
"You invited me and my daughter here under a pretense!" Lady Rainsford screeched. "Had I not uncovered your shame, my daughter might have married you and been ruined-utterly ruined. How long did you think to disguise the presence of your by-blow?"
"I am not Rose's father," Thorn stated. The look in his eyes made India shiver.
Lady Rainsford seemed unaffected. "Poppycock! She was tucked away in a separate house, just as my maid informed me this morning. I could scarcely believe it myself, but here she is. If this child of shame were truly your ward, there would be no need to conceal her existence. I think we can all agree to that!"
India felt another pulse of guilt; she should have guessed that Lady Rainsford would employ her maid as a spy. Then she felt Rose's thin shoulders trembling under her hands, and her guilt was replaced by outrage.
How dare the woman say such things in front of a child? She was despicable. She had to be silenced.
Lady Rainsford moved to a new target, the Duke of Villiers. "And you! I suppose you were applauding your son's attempt to dupe those of us who take marriage vows seriously. Is Christian morality a mere jest to you, Your Grace?" The last two words were not meant as a title of respect.
The duke didn't speak, but his expression was terrifying. He stepped forward, and India could tell that his intervention would only make the situation worse.
"This has nothing to do with Mr. Dautry," she cried, cutting off Villiers before he could reply or, worse, throw Lady Rainsford into the nearest hedge. The duke ignored her, moving forward like a predator.
Lady Rainsford merely snorted, her eyes returning to the little girl trembling under India's fingers. "She's the image of her father, and I don't mean that as a compliment."
Utter fury ripped up India's spine. "You are a vile woman," she snapped, "as are your disgraceful allegations. Rose is my daughter, and no concern of yours!"
She scarcely believed that she had blurted out those words, even as they came from her mouth. But silence fell.
Blessedly, silence fell.
Lady Rainsford's expression was incredulous. "She is your child?"
India drew a deep, stunned breath. There was no turning back now. "Yes," she said defiantly. "Mine. You should cease your unpleasant insinuations, Lady Rainsford. Mr. Dautry is innocent of your charges." She pulled Rose even closer.
"I always knew you were no better than you should be!" the lady said, her mouth twisting with distaste. "People driveled on about how wonderful you were, but there were those of us who knew that only a light-skirt would accept money from a man. The way you moved from household to household, I wonder if you even know the father's name!"
Her words struck with the bitterness of a poisoned dagger. In that instant, India grasped what her hasty remark would mean for herself, for her own reputation. Her heart dropped to her feet. Would she never learn to think before she spoke?