Page 12 of The Love Remedy (The Damsels of Discovery #1)

12

“You are well, Jonathan?” Lord Blackstone’s voice had been eerily familiar despite the years of separation. The winds whipping off the Thames had knocked Blackstone’s hat askew and given him roses on his cheeks.

Even now, days after their chance meeting, Thorne wrestled with the words that had passed—and those left unsaid—between the two of them after all these years.

Lord Blackstone had always been a quiet man, relying on his wife, Lady Blackstone, to navigate society for them both. When in London to take his seat, Blackstone was rarely to be seen, believing his vote in Lords was a great responsibility and taking it seriously. When his father returned home from Parliament, it was as though he needed an equal amount of time away from people as he’d just spent with them. While Thorne was forever in a state of motion during childhood—running, swimming, climbing trees, and, when his temper grew too hot, fighting—his father spent his time reading, horse breeding, and going on extended rambles alone through the grounds of his estate.

Thorne hadn’t replied right away, his attention split between his father and Lucy, who disappeared behind the garden walls. She’d told him the Physic Garden was open only to members of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries and he would not be allowed to follow her inside. She was probably grateful for that rule right now.

“What are you doing here?” Thorne asked his father. The question came out too abruptly, but Blackstone didn’t seem to care.

“I am considering a donation to the upkeep of the garden. I have great admiration for John Lindsey and his work. I was issued a special invitation to peek behind the walls that has only been extended to a handful of people. Who was that lady?”

“That lady is...” Thorne’s voice thinned into silence.

What was he supposed to say?

“That lady is Lucinda Peterson, an apothecary and under my protection as an agent with Tierney and Company,” he said finally.

Very straightforward, that. It sounded hollow in his ears.

“Tierney and Company, eh?” his father repeated, looking up at the gate to the Physic Garden, then back at Thorne. “This is what you do with your time now? You are finished fighting?”

A wave of sadness threatened to take Thorne out at his knees.

“Yes,” he answered his father. “I suppose I am.”

Blackstone had nodded, then adjusted his hat and glanced one last time at the gardens.

“I am in London to vote on the Bank Charter Act. Your mother and I are at home to callers on Wednesday and Thursday.”

Before Thorne could collect himself enough to answer, his father had turned and walked away. Thorne made no move to follow him. His stomach lurched crazily, and he leaned against the high brick wall of the garden.

By the time he saw Lucy leave and enter a hack, Thorne hadn’t recovered enough to approach her. Instead, he took himself off to catch the omnibus back to Tierney’s, where he spent the rest of the afternoon in the communal library researching medical patents, listening to the wind, and readying himself for when this job would end.

The question of whether his father had known he would be there, if the reunion was planned, if the invitation was genuine, had sat like a menhir, silent and unmoving, at the back of Thorne’s head for three days now. Three days with no words passed between himself and Lucy.

“Papa, are you ready yet?”

Not for the first time, Thorne contemplated a return to the boxing ring. With a few good purses, he could afford a town house. He and Sadie would have rooms on separate floors—perhaps even an indoor privy where he could sit and contemplate the larger existential questions that happened to pop into a man’s head when he was taking his time.

“Papaaaaaaaaaaa.” Sadie pulled his name into the thread of a whine, and Thorne finished his business, exited the privy, and accompanied her back to their rooms.

“All right, now this is what we will do.”

Sadie was bouncing on her toes as she raced around the little table in their apartment, polishing forks and refolding napkins. Each plate held a piece of card stock, upon which Sadie had written the guest’s name in her best handwriting.

Thorne followed his daughter’s orders, lighting the candles and setting the pewter snuffer within reach, checking on the roast in the oven and assuring her there were more than enough drippings to season the boiled carrots and potatoes.

“I am so glad Miss Peterson warned us of Mr. Gentry’s pet chicken,” Sadie said, her whole body vibrating with excitement. “I would have felt terrible serving him a dead cousin of his dear Andromeda. She is a pretty hen. Have you seen her?”

When a knock came at the door, Sadie put a hand to her stomach, having made herself sick with excitement.

“I shall answer the door, I am the hostess. Someday when we have a proper house, our butler will answer, but tonight— eeeek —”

Sadie did a little hop when a second knock sounded, and scuttled out of the kitchen to let in their guests.

Thorne stood at attention next to the settee where Sadie had directed him earlier as she led Juliet, Lucy, and Mr. Gentry into the small parlor.

Mr. Gentry had bowed once they shook hands and presented Thorne with a bottle of claret. He’d dressed for the occasion, donning a black wool dinner jacket about ten years out of date and a handsome pair of breeches. Thorne regretted his own choice of less formal trousers when he saw the care the other man had taken to shine his shoe buckles.

Gentry then turned to Sadie and handed her a nosegay of hothouse violets. Sadie’s eyes grew wide, and her lower lip trembled as she curtsied and thanked him with a quiet voice.

Tonight, Gentry might stand and recite the name and weight of every tumor known to man and Thorne would not bat an eyelid.

He’d never thought to get Sadie flowers.

Juliet and Lucy did a fine job of exclaiming over Sadie’s dress and the color of her hair ribbons. Having no spirits in the house, Thorne offered their guests a glass of lemonade before supper, which they politely accepted. Sadie settled them each in a seat, then rushed to help Thorne with the drinks.

“Miss Thorne, you are an accomplished hostess for your tender age,” said Mr. Gentry once he’d sipped and complimented the lemonade. “Do you and your father often entertain?”

Sadie set her lemonade on an end table and turned toward Mr. Gentry, hands clasped in earnestness.

“I have only become old enough to eat with adult company in the past two years. Before that, Papa would read to me from The Girl’s Own Book , to ready me for grown-up dinners.”

She set her hands in her lap, smoothing them down the lawn of her pretty rose skirts, and Thorne wished he could lean over and rub her cheek with the back of his hand. How Sadie would bristle at the gesture. She was, she had reminded him many times in the preparations for tonight, not a baby. She was almost a young woman.

“Our first guest ever was Mrs. Merkle,” Sadie confided. “She told Papa he had done a good job of instructing me on my table manners.”

“Did she have a particular Bible verse to laud such an achievement?” Lucy asked archly.

Thorne took the opportunity to speak to her directly.

“?‘Good God, good meat. Good prayer, let’s eat’ was her comment, I believe.”

Sadie clapped her hand over her open mouth with an audible pop and, after a moment where they weighed Thorne’s monotone against his small smile, the guests understood he’d made a joke and they burst into laughter.

She might be angry with him, but Lucy was never one not to join in when others were laughing.

He’d known that, somehow. Known he could de-thorn her if he let down his guard, just a little.

Letting down his guard to coax a smile from a beautiful woman.

What was next?

The bottle of claret sat on the dining room table.

“That’s not what she said, Papa.”

He turned to his daughter, who submerged her giggles with fluttering hands only to let them escape again when she looked at Juliet. It put him in mind of the bubbles in a glass of champagne, and he pressed two of his fingers against the pulse in his wrist.

Mr. Gentry told the story of a great-aunt who’d misplaced her false teeth but would not be deterred from saying grace at a family dinner, which had them laughing so hard the knot of worry tangling Thorne’s guts slowly unwound.

The roast came in for a bevy of compliments, and Sadie accepted similar accolades for the delicacy of her rolls and the beauty of her table settings. Thorne opened the claret and poured a glass each for Mr. Gentry, Lucy, and Julia. Sadie had placed Lucy opposite him at the other end of the table. Not subtle, but it seemed to suit Lucy, who was able to engage in general conversation without seeming to ignore him.

“The Petersons were very kind to have us to dinner one night,” Sadie explained to Mr. Gentry as he steadily cleared his plate. “Papa told me that in polite circles, one always reciprocates such invitations.”

Thorne had said it in a throwaway manner, forgetting Sadie heard everything—she just didn’t always listen. Especially when it came to the admonition that she shouldn’t try to hide food under other food on her plate.

“Ah, well. Those of us who do not travel in polite circles invite our guests for the pleasure of their company, not because we feel beholden,” said Lucy. She smiled so as to take the sting out of her words and stared directly at Thorne. “We might have you to dinner three and four times, Miss Thorne, but you don’t have to put your papa through the time and expense of hosting us in return.”

She tapped the side of her cheek with a finger. “Why, you might have to find other ways to hide your vegetables.”

Sadie sucked in her lips to hide a grimace.

Gentry looked up from his plate. “D’ye not enjoy cooked carrots, Miss Thorne?”

She shook her head. “They look like little legs and arms.”

A pause settled over the table as everyone craned their necks to better examine the carrots set before them.

“Never thought of that,” said Gentry.

“Oh. Oh, I can see it. This one here has crooked knees,” said Juliet.

Lucy locked eyes with Thorne.

She’d avoided him since their trip to the garden. Thorne had avoided her as well while he tried to organize his thoughts.

“More claret?” he asked Gentry, making sure to keep pouring until the bottle was empty. Thorne felt no desire to drink, but neither did he want the wine left in his home.

Meanwhile, Lucy’s eyes followed his every move. It could have been Thorne’s imagination that a shadow of distrust lay behind them.

Most likely, it wasn’t.

“Shall we have a game?” Juliet asked.

Thorne cleared their places and set the water to boil while Sadie escorted the guests back into the parlor.

“We could play two truths and a lie,” Lucy suggested. Thorne shuddered as he took down the tea from the top cupboard.

“Oh, can we please play Elephant’s Foot Umbrella Stand? One of the girls at school told me the rules. Do you know it?” Sadie asked.

Neither Thorne nor Mr. Gentry had heard of the game. Gentry caught on much quicker than Thorne, much to Sadie’s amusement. After twenty minutes of torture, Thorne decided to bring in the tea tray, and Sadie took great pleasure in being asked to pour. As she handed Juliet her cup, she startled herself and the party with an enormous yawn that she barely managed to hide with her hand.

“We have quite worn you out,” said Juliet.

“But we are having such a lovely time,” Sadie complained.

Gentry rose and gave Thorne a nod of his head, and to Sadie a deep bow. “Miss Thorne, I enjoyed myself at supper more than any entertainment I can remember. A good guest shows their appreciation by leaving early. The Spaniards always say the best-looking part of a guest is their back.”

Juliet and Lucy thanked both Sadie and Thorne for a lovely night. Before she left, Lucy turned around suddenly and took Sadie’s hands in hers.

“You take good care of your papa, Sadie. He is lucky to have you looking out for him.”

Sadie’s eyes widened, but she did not refute Lucy’s assumption that he needed looking out for. The air in the room inexplicably thinned, and a bittersweet pressure squeezed Thorne’s chest.

“However, you must let him take care of you in return. Old people need a purpose, you know.” Lucy’s smile gave Sadie permission to grin back at her as a silent understanding passed between them.

After their prayers, Sadie fell asleep before he’d even blown out the candle. The homey scent of gravy and tea filled the air, and Thorne collected the name cards to save for Sadie and listened to the small clock in the parlor as it clicked down the minutes, slow and sluggish.

He did not owe Lucy an explanation. She was his employer, not his keeper. Still, when he closed his eyes, he could feel her moving around the building, awake, angry perhaps. Alone.

She might not even care that Thorne was the son of a nobleman. She might be too busy worrying about the formula and what to do about her brother. Why, she might not have been thinking of him at all these past few days.

How dare she ignore him?

He’d better go confront her immediately.

Thorne left a note for Sadie in case she woke, and went downstairs.

—

“Did you find a home for your plants?”

“Did you have a nice chat with your father?”

Thorne leaned against the doorway of the apothecary office, his mouth partly open. It wasn’t a fitting answer to his question about the plants, but it had been on Lucy’s mind since they had parted ways at the Physic Garden three days ago.

“Thornwood,” she said thoughtfully. “And that was your father, Ezekiel Thornwood, Lord Blackstone,” she said.

A long breath escaped his pursed lips and Thorne rocked back on his heels, putting his ungloved hands in his jacket pockets.

Jonathan Thorne was not the only person capable of investigations. The day after she’d learned his real name, Lucy had stopped by the local pub and bought an ale for Katie’s da, Joe Quinlavin. After she finished making her case, once again, that Katie be allowed to attend school and received, once again, Quinlavin’s refusal, Lucy asked what he’d known about prizefighting and one Jonathan Thorne in particular.

Although Thorne had told her about the prizefighting, she’d no idea of how widespread his fame was as the “Gentleman Fighter.” Quinlavin had been astonished that Lucy hadn’t known of Thorne’s boxing fame and his lofty beginnings, but how should she have found out?

Apothecary apprentices were not in the same social strata as barons’ sons, nor had Lucy ever done anything as scandalous as go to a prizefight. Her family straddled the working and the middle classes carefully. There were parts of London she’d never set foot in, not because she would feel out of place—she would—but because there was no reason for her to leave her Newton Street shop unless it was on apothecary business. Even then, her travels had never taken her to places like Hyde Park or Fitzrovia.

For the past three days, she’d avoided him while mulling over the information she’d collected. All the while she chastised herself for listening to gossip. Thorne’s past was not her business. Lucy had no claim on him and no belief in his permanence.

This man was not of her world.

She’d known that the day he pulled her arse-first out of a second-floor window, and it had only become clearer every day since then.

He liked accounting , for goodness’ sake.

“Yes. I’m the third son,” Thorne acknowledged. “The spare’s spare.”

“What does your father think of your current occupation as an agent masquerading as a bookkeeper?” she asked. “Does he view it as a step up or down from prizefighter?”

Thorne’s mouth bowed into a frown of consideration. “I didn’t ask him. I believe the notion of occupation is what my father finds most confusing.”

Lucy knew little to nothing about the members of the aristocratic class. She’d no time to follow the gossip columns and never would have met any of them in her lifetime had it not been for Athena’s Retreat. She had attended various functions at the Retreat, both public and secret, and had overheard some of the ladies talking about the confines of the aristocratic life. If Thorne had remained in his family’s fold, he would have been spending his time shooting birds in the countryside, making endless rounds of visits, and attending various balls. It sounded terribly dull.

Except for the pretty dresses one gets to wear at a ball.

Lord knows, Lucy would love a pretty dress or two.

“Does your family know that you have a daughter?” she asked.

“They know very well,” Thorne said.

He came into the office, then shut and locked the door behind him.

Locked the door.

No shiver of apprehension pricked up and down Lucy’s spine. No. That was a shiver of anticipation . She clenched her thighs together as he approached where she sat behind the desk.

“Do you have any other questions besides what my father thinks of my job or if I hide my child from society?” he asked.

Lucy tried to read his expression in the low light. The oil lamp on the desk had run dry, and all there was left to illuminate the room was a candle atop the credenza.

“Do you share the opinion of your brother Mr. James Thornwood that the women he calls ‘unfortunates’ should not be able to receive preventatives or the induction of menstruation but should instead be jailed and their babies given to the church?”

“James is an ass. When did he say that?” Thorne asked.

His brother was named James. He had another brother, Joseph, and a mother, Ruth.

Lucy had wondered now and again since they’d met at Tierney’s offices where this man had come from and what had shaped him. That Thorne had a family and was third in line for a barony powerful enough to be mentioned in the broadsheets—well, that possibility had never entered her head.

“Mr. Thornwood was quoted in the Guardians’ publication, The Gentlemen’s Monthly Magazine .” She pushed it toward him, but instead of picking it up and bringing it to the other side of the desk to read, like a gentleman might, he came to stand next to her and set his hands on the desk.

“James is absolutely wrong in his opinion and should reconsider whom he calls ‘unfortunate,’?” he said, squinting at the print.

“Do you need your glasses?” she asked curtly.

“You notice I wear glasses,” he said, still staring at the magazine.

“I am observant,” she said.

“You are beautiful.”

Lucy had heard a version of the compliment hundreds of times, but not from this man.

“This makes you angry at me.” Lucy hadn’t known this for the truth until the words escaped her lips just now. He resented her beauty. While other women had done the same, this was the first time a man had acted so.

“I had a weakness for beautiful women in the past,” he said.

“The past when you were a prizefighter? Or a drunkard?”

“Both.”

As they spoke, Lucy stood and pushed the desk chair away with the backs of her legs. When sparring with this man, it behooved her to be standing.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“You hired me.”

Liar.

“Why are you here in this office in the middle of the night?” she asked.

“I want to kiss you again.”

It took every bit of Lucy’s self-possession not to swoon at the determination in his voice.

She groped for outrage but found only excitement.

“That’s blunt, Mr. Thornwood. Do you speak to titled women like that?”

With a movement so fast and fluid it took her breath away, Thorne had her pressed up against the wall, narrowly avoiding knocking into the side table now clear of papers. He gently but firmly cupped her chin in his massive hand and held her gaze with his.

“My name is Thorne . I have no occasion to speak with titled women. You are the first woman I have touched in seven years.”

A tiny gasp that melted into a groan left her lips when Thorne canted his hips into hers and set the bulge of his erection against the core of her.

“I don’t just want to kiss you,” he continued, his voice so low and gruff the words sounded like the hard scrape of boulder against boulder. “I want to touch and taste you, to make you come with my fingers and then my tongue, and if you consent, I want to make you come a third time with my cock. I want to be inside you when you make that noise.”

With an ease that belied his strength, he picked Lucy up and hitched her higher against the wall so that she could wrap her legs around his hips.

“Just say the word, Lucy, because all I want to do is make you come.”