The Toplofty Lord Thorpe Read Free Page B

red-faced, hard-drinking, blustering fool, could be counted on to realize the gravity of the situation.
    Sir Hale embraced a mode of behavior that was the complete antithesis of every value Julian Rutherford felt a gentleman should display. There were times, thought his lordship as he edged his curricle past a delivery wagon that had no business still being about at this hour, that he wished that wealth and good lineage were not the sole prerequisites for admission to polite society. There should be some kind of test, he mused reflectively, some sort of examination, as it were, for young peers, that would exclude all but the more intelligent, the better mannered, from their ranks.
    That he, Lord Thorpe, would score at or near the top in such a test was a foregone conclusion. He was intelligent, erudite, possessed only the highest instincts, was worthy of the loftiest regard, and, in general, exemplified all that was desired in an English nobleman. Anyone who didn’t believe it could apply to his mother—who had devoted her life to making her son aware of his perfection—and she would be happy to supply a full listing of his attributes.
    That he was in addition—alas, also thanks to his proud mama—arrogant, autocratic, pompous, blindly biased in his opinions, and insufferably straitlaced never occurred to him (and who, pray tell was there brave enough or foolhardy enough to bring such failings to his attention?).
    Once fully grown, and already self-satisfied to the point of smugness, Lord Thorpe had advanced to the age of three-and-thirty years, still warmed by the knowledge that his fellowmen had yet to do anything to undermine his fine opinion of himself—or his bad opinion of them.
    So why had he, a man who held himself above the plebeian antics of the underbred, allowed this silly Gladwin chit to get so annoyingly under his skin—and worse yet, remain there for over three long, uncomfortable years? Surely he should have been able to continue his pretense of ignoring both her and her atrocious behavior? But that was just it—his indifference was a pretense. He had never really succeeded in banishing her from his conscious mind.
    Not that he was intrigued by her vibrant, volatile personality, or attracted to her petite but still somewhat earthy charms. On the contrary, he was repelled by them, and angry at himself for allowing any hintof base physical attraction to the chit to disturb the even tenor of his days.
    Physical desire was for the lower orders and young peers out on a romp. It was not for distinguished scions of ancient houses. Every time he was forced to acknowledge Lucy Gladwin’s existence, it was like being served a slap in the face, a disturbing reminder that he was, after all, only human, and therefore susceptible to common carnal lust.
    Well, he reminded himself as he thought fleetingly of the way Lucy had looked the day before in the park, there is no place in my life for such animal weakness. A gentleman does not desire women of his own social level in that way—such base cravings were reserved for liaisons with opera dancers and other low women, whose lesser intellect and poor breeding opened them to all sorts of licentious behavior. Imagine Cynthia abandoning her cool air of self-possession beneath him as they writhed about in bed—preposterous! He would lose all respect for her—the woman whom he had chosen to bear the next proud generation of Rutherfords.
    Lady Cynthia. She was another reason behind this morning’s visit to Portman Square. It was his duty to protect her from further upset. The earl had studied long and hard before condescending to offer his hand to this exemplary female—she of the impressive lineage, elevated social standing, high standards, and impeccable manners (and straight white teeth, for such things must be considered). Cynthia knew full well the responsibility placed upon her byher rank, and was comfortingly cognizant of