Page 5 of Gone with the Rake

Miss Monroe continued telling Lydia about the jewel’s location, but Lydia didn’t hear her. She didn’t need to.

It’s in the hands of one scoundrel viscount.

And Lydia knew exactly which one.

Chapter 2

Viscount Arthur Thornton, known simply as Thorn in London society, cracked open his eyes and winced. A sharp pain pierced his head as he groaned and rubbed his eyes, blinking away the haze. The faint chirping of birds outside mixed with the distant clatter of carriage wheels and the hum of voices drifting in through the open window, letting him know it was time to get up.

He dropped his hand to the side, his fingers brushing against warm, soft flesh.

Thorn froze.

“Mm… Thorn!” a woman moaned pleasantly by his side.

Someone was in bed with him.

He turned his head gingerly, hissing at the occasional jolts of pain in his temples, and squinted at the gorgeous blonde woman beside him, a blue satin sheet just barely covering her naked form.

Who was she? And what was she doing in his bed?

His gaze glided back to the satin blue sheets… This wasn’t even his bed! Where the devil was he?

His hand instinctively moved to his chest, fingers brushing over the chain beneath his shirt—only to realize he hadn’t even disrobed. He looked down. Yes, still fully clothed, although his breeches were unfastened.

Thorn looked around. Golden sunlight streamed through the parted curtains, casting a bright, almost blinding glow across the room. A delicate floral wallpaper and a vanity adorned with glass perfume bottles assured him he was not in his own bedchamber.

The woman scooted closer to him and rubbed her inviting body against his side. Heat pooled inside his loins, and his body tightened with need. If only he could act on this need of his. Instead, his head buzzed unpleasantly, and nausea made its way to his throat.

Thorn sat up, shaking the woman off him as he did so.

“What’s wrong, Thorn, darling? Don’t you want your… breakfast?” the lady offered suggestively.

“Yes,” he croaked, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. He scrubbed his face, noting a few days’ worth of stubble. Was it still called stubble at this point, or was it a beard? Vlad, his valet, would be very displeased. “Coffee would be lovely.”

“That’s not what I meant.” The bed dipped as the woman got to her knees and crawled toward him. She placed her warm hands on his shoulders and started kneading his tired muscles. “You are so hard… so—”

Thorn stood sharply and winced. Would this headache ever cease? “Listen… Miss…”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?” When he didn’t respond, she covered her lush breasts with her hands and gasped. “It’s Iris, you scoundrel! How could you?”

“Apologies, but at the moment, I barely remember my name.” He looked around, spotting his cloak carelessly tossed on the back of an armchair. He went to pick it up. “How did I get here?”

“Ugh!” The lady offendedly ripped the sheet from the bed and covered herself with it. “I am going to take my morning ablutions and upon my return, I trust you will have departed.”

Thorn turned his eyes heavenward, but a splitting headache struck again, making him wince. How much had he drunk last night? It must have been a significant amount for him not to remember a thing. It wasn’t unusual for him to be foxed to the eyebrows whenever he bedded a woman, but in his current state, he doubted he had managed to perform tolerably. No wonder the woman hadn’t looked or sounded satisfied.

He cupped his erect length and winced. Apparently, he hadn’t been satisfied either.

His fingers shaking, Thorn slowly fastened the falls of his breeches. “Do I… owe you?”

The woman who had just turned away to leave sharply turned back, fury blazing in her strikingly blue eyes. She did not look like a brothel wench, but the headache muddled Thorn’s mind so that he couldn’t be sure of anything. And he needed to be sure.

“I am not a whore!” Her fingers curled into fists by her side. But then her features softened before her mouth twisted in a sneer. She looked down at the bulge in his trousers suggestively. “But even if I was, you wouldn’t owe me anything other than a heartfelt apology. I doubt your… tool even works. All these rumors about your prowess, I should have known, were lies.”

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she stalked off in a dramatic flourish.

With a shrug that caused another blinding pain in his temples, Thorn collected his hat, wrapped his cloak over his shoulders, and walked out of the luxurious townhouse. No, this woman, whoever she was, was not a whore. She was either a kept woman of a wealthy aristocrat or perhaps a wealthy widow. Not that it mattered who she was. He was unlikely to see her again.