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She was supposed to be searching for exploitable weaknesses, not giving herself palpitations by remembering all of his strengths.
Finally, she found something. Buried in the next-to-last paragraph and issued as a warning for a topic never to touch upon. This must be the trouble that Lady Beatrice had referred to.
As a boy of fifteen, Thorndon was kidnapped and held for ransom for the space of ten days. His kidnapping, and the resulting trial, were a public spectacle with devastating effects on the duke and his family. The experience made him wary, mistrustful, and gave him a desire for solitude. It is a testament to his fortitude that he was able to escape before any monies were paid by his family. Never mention this topic, Wilhelmina. It is one of discomfort for the duke, and should never be alluded to in conversation.
He’d been kidnapped and held for ransom. No wonder the letter he’d received had made him drop everything and race to London. He was here to protect Lady Beatrice from suffering the same fate.
She’d accused him of being privileged, of having no knowledge of what it was like to feel helpless. She’d told him she’d been kept in a prison and that he had no idea what it felt like. How wrong she’d been.
Uncle Malcolm had given her a comfortable home even if he’d withheld the love and acceptance she so desperately craved.
The brief mention of the kidnapping raised more questions than it answered. Why had he been held for so long, what had they done to him, and how had he escaped?
This new information made Thorndon more complex and interesting than your average arrogant duke, but it changed nothing.
They were only temporary partners, thrown together for a shared purpose: to find where Lord Rafe had gone and whom he was pursuing.
She absolutely couldn’t be drawn to Thorndale for so many reasons, not the least of which was that her uncle had chosen him as the perfect gentleman to keep her out of trouble by locking her away in his lonely estate in Cornwall.
Thorndon was here because of the letter, but he was also here to find a wife. And a wife for Thorndon was a purchase to be made and then forgotten about and neglected, a ripple on the dark waters of his life.
Their temporary alliance was a new pathway to her emancipation. The duke wasn’t so much an obstacle, as a powerful ally.
Powerful being the key word. He had the power to make her knees wobble, to steal her breath away with his skillful kisses, to set off fireworks in her belly.
She’d have to be constantly on her guard. Constantly wary of his ability to scramble her mind.
This was her very first mission. She could taste some of the thrills and excitement she’d been longing for, but she couldn’t go too far.
A good spy never lost their head, or their heart.
Chapter13
The club hadn’t changed since Drew’s last visit. Somber oil paintings of illustrious members still lined the mahogany wall paneling. A lingering odor of cigar smoke, citrus wood polish, and Sunday roast permeated the hallways.
In this upper crust bastion of brandy snifters and dampened passions the fates of men and nations were decided by well-fed politicians who had never known the knife of hunger or the bite of bitter cold.
The stasis of it struck him not as comforting and familiar but as rather pathetic.
Your days are numbered, gents, he thought as he left his hat and gloves with the wizened old porter.There’s a revolution brewing. There are ladies like MissPenny on the loose, flouting your rules and expectations for femininity.Don’t expect your reign to last forever.
The club hadn’t changed, but Drew had.
He wasn’t the same reckless devil searching for a temporary surcease of pain at the bottom of a glass. His life had purpose now and his actions were controlled.
The place brought back too many bad memories. He wouldn’t be here at all if he wasn’t searching for news about Rafe.
“Hello, Mr.Bickerstaff,” he said to the headwaiter, an unsmiling, gray-mustachioed man who betrayed no surprise at seeing Drew after so many years.
Bickerstaff, unlike Rafe’s garrulous manservant Crankshaw, was trusted for his silence and discretion—which was a good thing because the conversations he overheard could no doubt start wars, both domestic and international.
“Your Grace.” The waiter bowed. “Your usual table?”
“It can’t still be reserved after all this time.”
“I will make it so.”
“No need to oust anyone on my account. I’ll sit anywhere.”
