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Thorn raised his head sharply, pinning her with his gaze. “Nothing has changed. We are still betrothed.”
She lifted her chin defiantly. “What makes you think that I will still consider you as a prospect?”
Thorn took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. He couldn’t let his enemies get away with breaking his upcoming marriage. If his father died, Thorn would be left with nothing. His personal feelings did not matter. Not now.
He cleared his throat. “I assure you that I have responded to your letters. They were probably lost along the way. I should have sent follow-up missives to make certain they were delivered. The fault is mine, and I apologize for that. But I have no intention of breaking our arrangement.”
She blinked at him, watching him closely, no doubt considering his trustworthiness. She didn’t have many choices though. Thorn knew it. If she did, she would have left already. “That still doesn’t solve the issue I have emphasized. I would like to know my fiancé before marrying him.”
Thorn licked his dry lips and nodded. “But you’re here now, in London. Why don’t I pay a call on you on the morrow, and we can go for a ride?”
Miss Penelope considered him silently for a moment then murmured, “My father might not be receptive to the idea.”
“Is that a yes? Do you agree to continue our betrothal?”
She gave a timid nod. “If my father agrees, then yes.”
“He will.” Thorn took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
He spun on his heel and strode toward Mr. Prescott, who faced him in anticipation of his approach. “Whatever you said to my daughter—”
“What is the rumor you have heard, and who have you heard it from?” Thorn interrupted sharply.
The man’s brows climbed up in surprise. He didn’t expect such directness from Thorn, but it seemed he appreciated it. “Something about your inability”—he cleared his throat—“to perform your marital duty. And since I am in need of an heir, this is an important aspect for consideration.”
Thorn snorted. “And who did you hear it from?”
Mr. Prescott hesitated, visibly uncomfortable, color rising up to his face. Thorn just raised a brow. “A blonde, gorgeous woman. Miss Ivy or some such.”
Thorn nodded. “Do you require proof by a doctor you trust? Because I assure you the rumor is false. I am willing to undergo any inspection to ease your mind.”
Mr. Prescott shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I don’t require—”
“Set up a meeting with your doctor. I want you to be comfortable with your decision. In the meantime, I shall call on your daughter tomorrow. We shall go for a ride and officially start the courting process. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have urgent matters to attend to, I am sure you understand.”
He shook the confused man’s hand, then turned on his heel and walked away.
Plucking the ruby ring out of his pocket, he threaded it onto his chain and hung it onto his neck, where it belonged.
Chapter 14
Lydia’s heart pounded loudly in her chest. So loud, in fact, that she could barely hear the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the carriage against the cobblestones. She nervously picked at the tips of her fingers, ruffling the fabric of her gloves.
She felt as nervous as she had during her very first ball. She was supposed to be an experienced lady now, the fearless thief. She was supposed to walk into a ball and know exactly what to do, act as though none of it bothered her. But her heart harbored a pinch of trepidation.
What was she to do when she met Art? What if he asked her to dance?
She had dreamed of dancing with him at a ball since the day she met him. And she always thought that the first time she attended a ball, she’d arrive with her hand on his sleeve.
But dozens of balls had passed without his presence, and Lydia thought that she’d been disenchanted with the notion of it… Apparently not.
She was still that young, dreamy girl of seventeen, believing the maudlin sentiments of a boy she loved.
Lydia squeezed her eyes shut so hard she saw the sparks. She needed to concentrate on the task. And her only task was to get the ring from the lying viscount and give it to Miss Monroe.
After that, she’d be free.
The rustle of skirts reminded her that she wasn’t the only one in the carriage. Honoria sat silently across from her, watching the passing London scenery. She wasn’t a chattering type, but her silence today was especially quiet. Almost deafening.
