*A\N* Ever wondered what happened between the Epilogue and Teaser for Lord Thorne? Wait no further! Here's an extra bonus scene I had written from Thorne's POV of the Epilogue and a bit further. Since he's being kind of an arse as I am trying to write his story, I'm calling him out! Ha! Enjoy seeing more into Thorne's backstory, and I hope to have new stuff posted soon. Enjoy!*

____________

So," Lord Vincent, Viscount Thorne asked, turning towards his childhood friend, "how does it feel?"

The wedding feast had been going on for almost an hour and Thorne was chomping at the bit for just this moment.

Lord Greyson, Earl of Claymore, had finally left his bride's side, and yet, Thorne was disgruntled to see, his friend's eyes were still thoroughly following Charlotte about the room, a soft smile on his face.

What would that be like? Thorne wondered briefly. He shook his head, casting the ridiculous notion to the side.

Marriage was not for him.

It never would be.

Thorne cleared his throat, bringing Greyson's attention back to him. Seeming to realize a question had been left unanswered, Greyson hummed low in his throat. He nodded to his wife. "She makes me happy, Thorne."

And....cue!

"Well, yes," Thorne said, subduing the grin threatening to break over his lips. "I can see that, dear friend, but actually I was referring to something else entirely."

Greyson's gaze finally focused fully on Thorne, a wary expression entering his gray eyes.

This time, Thorne let the grin spread across his face. "I was wondering how those petticoats of yours are faring these days? Have you broken them in yet?"

Thorne didn't have to wait long for the punch line to sink in before Greyson's forbidding scowl tightened brows. "Goddamn it, Thorne. If you don't behave I'm going to...to..."

As Greyson floundered, Thorne leaned in, his golden brow lifting. "You'll what? Swat me with your reticule perhaps? Snap me on the wrist with your fan?"

Thorne circled his friend, making a show of casing his friend's attire.

"Are those hidden in your petticoats as well?"

Greyson's fists clenched, and Thorne found his delayed moment of amusement had been well worth the wait.

God above, but it had!

Unfortunately, Greyson's scowl all too soon fled his features, his attention once more arrested by his wife. Thorne let himself peruse the lady in question, smiling at his friend's good fortune. Greyson needed a spirited bride for himself. None other would be able to challenge Greyson so thoroughly, keep him from secluding himself off from the rest of the world.

Whether marriage was a preferable outcome or not, Thorne mused.

Glancing back to Greyson, Thorne had to wonder what it would be like? To be loved so? To be so besotted. Would it be worth it?

Or would Thorne simply turn into a monster, just like his father?

Greyson shifted next to him, and Thorne's attention snapped back into his surroundings. Greyson mumbled something low beneath his breath. Something that sounded like...breeches?

Thorne glanced at his friend dubiously, wondering if Charlotte's previous disguise had addled Greyson's brain.

A bevy of laughter floated above the mindless chatter of the room, and Thorne found his gaze drawing to the delightful sound. Charlotte was speaking with her friend, Miss Sophie Beaumonte. Thorne narrowed his eyes as he watched her hand behind her back, feeling the table for...

Thorne grinned.

Yes. Another tart.

Where the devil was the minx hiding those blasted desserts? Thorne wondered.

Charlotte twisted quickly, her name being called, and that was when Thorne saw it. Greyson's low growl offered further confirmation.

The newly-titled Countess of Claymore, Lady Charlotte, was currently garbed in a pair of boy's breeches beneath her wedding gown.

He glanced at Greyson whose fists were clenched, the man's eyes narrowed as if he had just spotted his prey.

Well, Thorne thought, stepping slightly away from Greyson. Whatever kink of his friend's that was, Thorne decided he would rather have no part in it.

"If you'll excuse me," Greyson murmured beside him, his voice husky, "I believe I owe my wife a dance."

And then he was gone, his tall form striding across the room, passing the banquet of sausages and muffins, bypassing the watchful eye of his mother and Sophie. Thorne watched as Greyson came up behind Charlotte, sweeping her into his arms. Charlotte's head fell back onto his shoulder as she laughed.

Thorne should have left then. Should have wished his two friends congratulations, danced attendance upon Charlotte, and left the room.

Instead, Thorne had stayed.

And tortured himself, for the commotion that sounded in the corner of the room precluded his doom.

The Duke of Burkeley strode into the hall, his massive bulk dwarfing the space with his sheer size. His hair was pitch, his eyes a crystal-clear blue. His attire was to the height of fashion, his bearing as if all within the room's enclosure were beneath his notice.

But all too soon, Thorne found his eyes drawn to the duke's companion.

The man's fiancée, in fact.

Georgianna.

She entered the room on the duke's arm, the picture of poise and elegance. So different from the youthful sprite Thorne had known before everything that had happened.

Georgianna's hair gleamed like liquid fire atop her head, her creamy skin shining like alabaster against a pale yellow gown. It hugged her breasts, cascading over her hips and flaring softly to the floor with a bit of crinoline no doubt beneath.

The announcement had come right after Greyson's wedding.

Thorne had stood in Greyson's study, a cheroot halfway to his lips as the Duke of Burekely had been led in. It seemed Georgianna had come to an arrangement with the Duke. Thorne couldn't help the curl of his lip at that. That his Georgianna - that Georgianna, he corrected - would be happy in a loveless marriage, despite how unimpeachable the duke's reputation was.

God above, but Thorne bet the man would be a veritable bore in bed, too. Would probably put her to sleep with talk of the decadent starch in his cravat or the boot polish he had just acquired.

Thorne gritted his teeth, blocking that particular thought.

It didn't matter to Thorne what Georgianna wished to do with her future.

Not a whit.

The band began a tune and the duke led Georgianna into a waltz, of all things.

Thorne was glaring daggers at the duke so intently, hoping the man met his fate when those over slicked boots of his had him tumbling face first into the marble, that he might have missed something particularly discombobulating.

For the duke - that steadfast, overly serious and morose creature - was currently casting a most fearsome scowl over Georgianna's shoulder.

Thorne followed the gaze to the corner where Sophie, her blonde hair sparkling beneath the ray of a streak of sun, stood, a cup of lemonade halfway to her parted lips. Her brows were dipped likewise and her chin raised in a silent dare.

Most curious, that.

And then, the duke was leading Georgianna around a turn, her brown and red curls cascading in an arc of fire around her head. Thorne knew with a sinking in his gut and a roiling in his stomach, that he had reached his limit.

To see Georgianna's teeth flash, her gloved hand encapsulated by the duke's. A hand lay on her waist, and her skirts danced enchantingly about another's legs.

The sight undid him.

Thorne twisted on his heel, parting through people blindly. His throat was tight, burning like a finger of the finest liquor. His breath came in deep pants, bubbling like acid in his chest.

The outside air greeted him as he pushed through. He ran a hand through his hair, the ends stabbing into his eyes as a flop of hair rained back down on his forehead. He sat heavily on a bench, the gardens barricading around him.

And he waited.

Thorne didn't know if she would come, but if Georgianna did - because Thorne knew every habit she had, knew every place of solace she sought - then she would find him.

It seemed he had prepared for a battle he didn't even know he had.

For in the past week that they had cohabited, Thorne had watched her. He had been helpless not to.

But Georgianna still had a fondness for gardens.

She would come.

Georgianna's steps crunched not minutes later, the grass sweeping with her swift steps. As she rounded the corner - Thorne's body surely encompassing her view - the steps stopped. She had, no doubt, expected to find the place empty. After all, the wedding breakfast was still going on, the mindless chatter drifting on the breeze.

Had she tired of that old stick in the mud already? Thorne wondered. And then - quite without his consent - Thorne's words left him before he had even acknowledged their existence.

"Are you honestly going to marry that bore Burkeley?"

What was it about this lady that completely unhinged him? He felt like a jaded lover. Which was patently ridiculous, he knew, but there it was.

Her steps continued closer, the grass wisping with her every movement. Thorne felt when she stopped behind him. It a presence that settled in his bones and made his pulse race. The scent of vanilla spice surrounded him, and it took all of his self control not to inhale deeply. Instead, he crossed one booted foot over the other, leaning back on his palms on the stone bench.

"You lost the privilege of questioning me a long time ago, Vincent," she replied, her voice so soft and composed that it irritated Thorne's skin, making it itch. "Quite frankly, it's none of your business."

Such a polite setdown.

What had happened to the woman who had sprinted after Thorne and Greyson, mud trailing the hem of her skirts?

Thorne laughed, but the sound grated harshly in the back of his throat.

He wasn't sure what came over him then. Perhaps lack of sleep? The stress of the past week with Greyson and Charlotte's lives being in danger?

Having to live with Georgianna only rooms away, ignoring him completely while his dreams were haunted with her?

Whatever it was, it had that damned roguish devil on his shoulder whispering into his ear.

"What if I told you," he drawled, his voice carrying over his shoulder, "that I have a proposition for you?"

Thorne held his breath for her answer.

And what he would do once he found out, one way or the other.