Chapter 4
T he room was dark, with only a dying fire in the hearth illuminating a small patch of space along the wall. Moonlight, shaded by the curtains, didn’t reach far, so the majority of the room was enveloped in darkness. The bed stood in the middle, empty, cold, inviting…
Inviting? What a ridiculous thought.
That thought was exactly what had led her to the current state of her affairs—from a comfortable house to the streets and into a life of crime.
She cocked her head to the side as she took in the dark interior of the room. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing. A thief was better than a maid. A rented townhouse was better than a tiny cot in a just as tiny room.
Except… Would her mother still be alive if she’d stayed as a maid?
A painful ache tightened in her chest. Or was it always her destiny to leave this world so young?
Shaking off the grim thought, Lydia spun on her heels and walked straight to the painting of the marquess hanging on the wall across from the bed. She reached out to take it off, but paused mid-motion, squinting at the art.
This used to be the marquess’s portrait, if she remembered correctly. It was difficult to make out the details in the dark, but it seemed like the current painting was of a boat shaking about in the storm.
She could be misremembering. It had been quite a few years since she’d last been in this place—she was mostly a country maid, after all…
Did it matter?
Lydia flexed her fingers before lifting the painting and propping it against the wall.
Whether or not her mind was deceiving her regarding the painting, she was certainly not mistaken about the location of the safe. She’d never quite understood why the wealthy trusted their jewels to a piece of metal that was incredibly easy to break open.
With a shrug, she reached into her tool belt and made quick work of the lock. The safe door gave in, opening with a weary creak.
Their mistake, her easy pickings.
A dance in her step, Lydia reached into the safe, rifling through its contents: a stack of crisp banknotes, a bejeweled pocket watch, various documents… No, no, and no.
She patted the bottom of the safe. Nothing.
Closing the safe with a quiet click, she returned the painting to its spot on the wall. Where else could the jewel be?
Lydia turned to face the room, her gaze running over every surface. She’d have to rummage through the entire place, she realized.
It was a blessing that Art wasn’t in his bedchamber now… in the middle of the night. He was probably spending his time in someone else’s bed, not that Lydia cared. At least, she shouldn’t have cared.
Lydia scoffed. It made no sense she would feel this burning sensation in her chest at the thought of Art with another woman. It had been over a decade since she saw him last. He had promised to marry her, seduced her, then forced her out of the house to fend for herself. If anything, she should feel anger toward him and indifference toward his nightly activities.
Nodding resolutely to herself, Lydia continued the search, carefully but thoroughly looking through the entire room and the dressing chamber. No success.
Nothing but clothing in the chest of drawers, naught but journals and writing implements on the desk, and nothing of importance on the bedside table. A jewelry box she’d found tucked in the corner of the room offered a temporary hope, but the jewels inside were not the ones she was looking for. She rummaged through the items once more and was ready to put the box away when her glove caught onto a nick in the corner.
Wait a moment… Is there a secret compartment in the jewelry box?
She ran her gloved fingertips methodically across every surface, feeling for the slightest irregularity. She was right! There was a nick in the corner. Catching it with her nail, she managed to lift the false bottom.
Her heart drummed in anticipation as she peeked into the secret compartment… only to let out a sigh of disappointment when she found nothing but the Thornton signet ring.
The question of why he wasn’t wearing it but hiding it inside the jewelry box flickered in her mind. The rest of her thoughts were reserved for utter complete disappointment.
In frustration, she shut the jewelry box, making a dull sound in the quiet room.
Another dull sound followed, then another, and another.
It took Lydia a few moments to realize that those sounds weren’t coming from inside the room and they were not of Lydia’s making.
They were footsteps! Someone was approaching the bedchamber.
“No, Vlad, I won’t need you tonight,” an irritable but achingly familiar voice said, coming close behind the door—too close.
Lydia glanced at the door just as the doorknob turned.
* * *
Thorn closed the door to his room and leaned against it, his head making a dull thud upon contact. Thick curtains in his room ruffled in the draft, but otherwise, the room was dark and quiet. Just as he liked it.
Spending the entire day with ledgers, solicitors, managers, and random visitors was exhausting. The fact that some of his ventures were not paying off added to the stress, considering he now knew he would be penniless the moment his sire turned up his toes. Unless he found himself a bride, that was.
Thorn hadn’t thought about marrying in quite a few years. Not since he’d found out that she was gone.
He’d been lost for a long time since then—purposeless, adrift. For a long time, he couldn’t even bed a woman, much less seriously think of courting one. Even now, he had to drown himself in whisky before accepting that the woman in his bed would not be her.
It would never be her.
They called him a libertine, a rake, a debauched man as he hopped from one bed to the next, but how could he commit to any one person when his heart was already taken? Then broken.
And his conscience guilt-ridden.
My fault.
All of this was his own fault.
So, in order not to break another woman’s heart, he had to either hop-hop-hop or spend his nights alone. And now he was supposed to get married to keep the inheritance that had already cost him so much?
It had cost him everything.
Thorn shook his head to dispel the glum thoughts, his gaze sliding along the room. The curtains moved just a bit with the wind… Why was the window open, anyway? He needed to close—
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Ah, here comes the bath.
Thorn stepped away from the door and ordered the servants to come in.
A couple of maids filed in holding towels, soaps and other items in their arms as the footmen brought in the bath and filled it with steaming water.
Thorn walked up to the stool by the bath and picked up the soap. Bringing it close to his nose, he inhaled the scent.
Lilies.
Why did it have to be lilies? Wasn’t he tortured by memories enough?
“Do we have different soap?” he barked. He must have been too loud or too gruff because the maid jumped in surprise.
“No, sir,” she murmured.
Of course not.
His step-witch, Rosemary, was in charge of procurement in this house, and she wouldn’t bother asking him what kind of soap he preferred. If she did, she would probably buy the opposite, anyway.
The servants silently left the room, closing the door behind them.
With a shrug, Thorn stretched and started to slowly undo the buttons on his shirt. After a long day of sitting hunched over the desk, the bath seemed like heaven. He freed the shirt from his breeches and tugged it over his head.
He needed more exercise, he thought, as his back crackled from the movement. Horse riding alone wasn’t enough, and he hadn’t gone boxing in over a week. He needed to get back to it. That ought to sharpen his body and clear his mind.
With that thought, he undid the falls of his breeches and dropped them to the floor.
* * *
Torture.
What Lydia was witnessing was pure torture.
Although captured war hostages might beg to differ, the pain in her chest right now felt comparable.
No, it wasn’t because she was folded uncomfortably on the windowsill between the glass and the curtains. But because through the crack in the curtains, she could clearly see Art undressing.
Fine. Perhaps the prisoners of war wouldn’t consider this a form of torture, but for her, at this particular moment, it was.
Her soul clawed at her chest, crying out for the man in that room.
Why?
She had no idea.
He had abandoned her! Left her for dead. Ignored her letters. All after promising to marry her.
Now, he was naked on the other side of the room, and Lydia couldn’t help but peek as he shed the last of his clothing.
The first time she’d seen him in years, and he had to be naked. Not only that, but he looked quite gorgeous.
Damn him and his athletic body. A part of her had hoped that he’d acquired a pouch like many lords were wont to do. But no, the bastard was perfectly lean, with bulging… muscles.
Lydia forced her eyes up.
She followed the sprinkling of dark hair up to his belly button, then moved her eyes up his flat belly and up to his muscled chest—
Wait… what is that?
A chain hung from his neck, and at the bottom, glinting in the firelight, was a ruby!
It couldn’t be. Could it?
Lydia leaned forward, and then immediately sat back, afraid to fall out of her narrow hiding place. Lucky for her, just at that moment, Art stepped over the rim of the bath and lowered himself into the water, not paying attention to any movement within the curtains.
She had to be more careful. She couldn’t afford to be caught again. She’d already made a calculated decision to stay behind the covers when Art had opened the door, as she wouldn’t have had time to crawl out of the window. But now that she was stuck here, she had the unique opportunity to find out if the red gem hanging from the chain around his neck was really the ring she coveted.
And so, the torture continued.
Yes, that was exactly why she watched him lower himself into the bath, his muscles glinting in the firelight. He laid his head against the rim of the bath and just lay there for a long moment, raw emotions playing on his face—irritation, frustration, sadness… something else she could not identify.
He would occasionally sputter an expletive and splash water on his unshaven face. Although a clean-shaven look was all the rage among the ton , she found the ruggedness of a beard appealing on him.
The last time she saw him, she hadn’t been sure he could even grow one.
He scrubbed his face once more, his expression troubled.
She’d give anything to know what he was thinking about, what was bothering him so.
Picking up his sponge, he traced his body, soaping every inch of him. He rinsed off his raven-black hair and returned to the lying position. He threw his head back and let out a weary sigh. His hand glided down his body, sensually, almost teasing.
As if he knew he was being observed and was taunting Lydia.
He paused in the middle of his chest and fisted his hand—was he holding the ring?—while his other hand continued to trace his body lower and lower. A groan left his lungs, almost a growl, raw, gritty, sensual…
Then he started pumping his hips, water sloshing all around him as he pleasured himself in the bath.
Lydia’s body reacted instantly, fire-like heat coursing through her veins. Her skin grew clammy with sweat, sticking to her clothing while an unrelenting pulse beat in her nether regions.
She turned away and forced herself to direct her thoughts somewhere else, anywhere!
But the suggestive sounds coming from behind the curtains didn’t help derail her body’s response. His breathing grew louder with every thrust and slosh of the water, and then he whispered, “Lily…” And everything grew quiet.
Lydia froze.
Did he really just say, Lily ?
It couldn’t be. With the crackling fire and the sloshing of the water, she had probably misheard. Perhaps it was just a growl of completion.
Lydia forced out a measured breath to calm her nerves.
She counted to ten, waiting for her heartbeat to slow and her mind to stop racing.
When she glanced through the curtains once more, he was already in bed. The servants entered the next moment and carried the bath out. A maid walked up to his bed and pulled the silky drapes around it.
A few moments later, the servants had left, and the room was quiet, except for the soft breathing coming from inside the bed.
Lydia swallowed. It was now or never, her only chance to get the ring back.