Page 101 of Thief of the Ton
Lady Betty gave a soft laugh. “Darling Lavinia, your naïveté does you credit, as does the absence of the pride that other young women in Society have in abundance. Lord Marlow can only have had one reason—that he had no desire to lessen your opinion of him. And, given that most men in his position care little for the opinion of any member of our sex, I can only surmise that he’s in love with you.”
Lavinia drew in a sharp breath, and her stomach tightened at the delicious notion. Then she shook her head.
“I-I cannot believe that.”
Lady Betty smiled. “You fear such belief because you love him in return.”
Lavinia opened her mouth to voice her denial, then closed it. There was no deceiving Lady Betty—a woman of the world who possessed a sharp eye and a quick wit.
“There’s no shame in loving another, Lavinia.”
“Ican’tlove him,” Lavinia said. “To love him would be to betray Papa.”
“A man should not suffer for the sins of his father—especially since, if I recall, he’s been estranged from his father for some years.”
“They’re estranged?”
Lady Betty nodded. “He never visits the estate—Marlow Park. He prefers to remain in London.”
“And…Earl Walton?”
“He resides in Italy, if I recall,” Lady Betty said. “Marlow Park is somewhat neglected. Has your father not spoken of it? It’s barely ten miles from Springfield.”
Ten miles…
It was riding distance. Was Mama’s clock there? Or had Walton taken it to Italy?
“Such a pity it’s neglected,” Lady Betty continued. “The grounds are beautiful. Your father visited it often when your dear mama was alive.”
“Did Earl Walton visit Papa”—Lavinia hesitated—“at Fosterley Park?”
“Several times,” Lady Betty said. “They were great friends, until…” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “No matter. That’s in the past. But he often brought his son with him—I saw them, once, when my late husband and I used to visit your mama and papa. They always came on horseback, when Lord Marlow was old enough to ride.”
Lavinia closed her eyes to bring forth the memory of the boy. And his gray pony, Lancelot, the beloved companion his father had forced him to shoot.
No wonder he’d not admitted who his father was.
Oh, Peregrine!
“Lavinia…”
Her heart fluttered at the sound of her name uttered in that familiar voice—the voice of the boy she’d adored, and the man she had fallen in love with.
“Lavinia.”
She drew in a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of male spices. Then she heard a sharp cry from Lady Betty and snapped her eyes open.
Peregrine stood before her.
“You shouldn’t be here, sir!” Lady Betty said. “Nor should you address my friend in so familiar a manner.”
“Forgive me, Lady Betty, but I must beg an audience with Miss de Grande.”
Lavinia’s skin tightened with need at the timbre of his voice—the sweet, familiar voice that had visited her dreams only last night. Then she blushed with shame at the memory of how she had touched the intimate place that she dare not speak of, to reignite the delicious, wicked pleasure that he’d given her…
…and how her body had responded, rippling deep inside her center as she ran her fingertips across her flesh, imagining they were his…
She squeezed her thighs together and felt her cheeks warm with shame at the wanton reaction borne of primal female instinct. Since when had she turned into such a weak woman as to almost swoon with desire at the mere sight of him?
