Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  Finally, they arrived at the opera, and the party made their way to the duke’s box. Not long after, a throng of her mother’s admirers came to call, and her father excused himself—probably to call on his own paramour. Neville put the opera glasses to use, scanning the crowd, while Lorrie waved to a few of her acquaintances and spoke briefly with several men who came to the box to call on her.

  During the carriage ride she had reminded herself of all of Francis’s wonderful qualities and of the brutal way his cousin, the Viking, had treated her beloved when they were children. She would tolerate her bodyguard, but she would not like him. She would not feel warm when she looked at him. That sort of sensation was reserved for her Mr. Mostyn. And with her love for the other Mr. Mostyn firmly entrenched in her mind, she was able to give only the briefest attention to the men who came to her father’s box to court her. None were as handsome or exciting as Francis. It did not hurt her intended’s cause that she felt strange speaking in front of the Viking. She might have flirted with a few of the men, just for fun, but how was she to flirt with the Viking watching her?

  Finally, the opera began, and Lorrie turned her attention to the stage. Even though she knew Francis would not be in attendance, she surveyed the other boxes and the floor just in case. By the end of the first hour, she was impossibly bored, and excused herself to go to the ladies’ retiring room. She’d no sooner ducked through the box’s curtains than the Viking stepped out after her.

  She wheeled around, and her heart jumped into her throat. Why, the man might as well roar like the lion he resembled. How her fingers itched to remove that cravat so she might place him back in the feral category and firmly take him out of the dangerously handsome category. Since she could not remove the cravat, or the man himself, she spoke a bit too sharply. “What is wrong?”

  He shook his head. Of course the man did not speak to her.

  “Then why leave the box?” she persisted.

  “Where you go, I go,” he said.

  That was her fault. She should have expected it. “I am only going to the ladies’ retiring room, and you will not be welcomed there. You might as well wait for me here.”

  Another shake of his head.

  “Fine.” She set off with him walking a few respectable steps behind her. She had nothing to hide, so she did not mind him accompanying her—well, not very much—but what would happen when she did not desire his company? The Viking would make any rendezvous with Francis even more difficult. And Lorrie was determined to steal at least one kiss from her intended at the prince’s ball tomorrow night.

  Most of the opera’s patrons were still in their seats, so the corridors of the theater were all but empty. She did pass one or two other ladies, and she could not help but note how their faces lit with interest upon seeing the Viking. One even turned to watch him walk away.

  Lorrie made use of the ladies’ retiring room, and when she emerged again, the Viking was not waiting for her. She should have been pleased that he was not as vigilant as she’d feared, but Lorrie was actually rather indignant. What sort of bodyguard did not even wait for the woman he was supposed to be protecting?

  She peered right and left, and when she did not see him, she headed back to the Ridlington box, taking her time as she had no desire to return to the opera quickly. The Viking met her just outside the box, seeming to step out of nowhere. Lorrie couldn’t help scowling at him, both because she was startled and because his appearance caused that unwanted flash of heat again. “Where did you go?”

  He raised one brow, making it look easy.

  “I thought you were supposed to protect me,” she said, keeping her voice low so the patrons in the boxes behind the curtains would not overhear. “But when I came out, you were gone.”

  “Miss me?” he asked. Lorrie could not be certain, but she thought he was almost smiling.

  “No! But if you insist on skulking about, I want to know where you are doing so.”

  The Viking didn’t speak again, and Lorrie supposed she had said her piece and should now return to her seat. But that would mean attending to the opera again. “Where did you go?” she asked, her tone placating.

  “To look at the rain. It hasn’t let up.”

  Lorrie frowned. “Are the streets still passable?”

  He nodded. “You will be safe on the return home, but if the rain does not slacken, I may suggest to your father we leave early.”

  “Oh, that would be no hardship,” Lorrie said. “I hate the opera.”

  He stared at her.

  “Don’t tell me you love it?”

  He shook his head. “Hate it.”

  Lorrie smiled. “Good. I like you much better for admitting that. Charles, my eldest brother, pretends he adores the opera, but he is always engaged whenever we have tickets.”

  “I don’t pretend,” the Viking said.

  “That’s an…admirable quality,” she said, though the statement flustered her. She did not know anyone who did not pretend. Everyone wore masks, and some people she knew wore more than one. She wasn’t certain if she should respect the Viking more for eschewing pretense or consider him a complete simpleton.

  She really should return to the box now. They had conversed enough, and she had been absent too long. Instead, she said, “If you don’t like the opera, what do you like?”

  “Food,” he said immediately.

  Lorrie laughed. “I’ve never met a man who didn’t.” This might be a weakness she could exploit. “Are you hungry?”

  “Always.”

  “They have light fare for sale downstairs,” she told him. “If you go now, you will be ahead of everyone at intermission.”

  He shook his head and indicated her father’s box.

  “I will go inside and suffer the opera while you are away. I promise not to leave my seat until you return.”

  He shook his head again.

  “Mr. Mostyn, this is not a ploy to trick you.” Not yet at any rate. “I promise. You see?” She parted the outer curtains. “I am returning right now.”

  She let the curtains drop behind her, then parted the inner curtains and took her seat. “Where is Mostyn?” her father asked, leaning over to whisper in her ear.

  Lorrie waited a moment, expecting the man to enter at any moment, but either he trusted her more than he’d indicated or he really was hungry.

  “I believe he’s patrolling,” she said, when the Viking didn’t reappear.

  Sometime before the intermission Mostyn did return. Lorrie didn’t know exactly when he stepped into the box, but at some point her back prickled and she looked over her shoulder and saw him watching her. Warmth crept up her spine. As much as she might argue that she did not need a protector, she felt a strange sense of comfort when he was nearby.

  He stayed by her side during the intermission, when she was surrounded by admirers. She was not so vain as to believe the men were at all interested in her. It was her substantial dowry that drew them. With Mostyn keeping guard over her, only the most desperate paid her any homage. The Viking scowled so fiercely at every man who deigned enter his lair that when Neville ducked back in, her brother looked ready to turn back around again.

  Finally, the opera ended, and Lorrie tried hard not to rub her eyes and give away that she had dozed through the last half hour. Her mind still foggy, she followed her mother and father out of the box and into the lobby. Outside, the rain still fell steadily, and the line of carriages was longer than usual. The press of theatergoers in the lobby was stifling, and once again, Lorrie was glad to have the Viking at her side. She could appreciate him more if she did not look at him too closely. Better to think of him as a sort of sentry—a suit of armor that followed her about.

  “Lorraine, come stand outside with me,” the duchess ordered. “I cannot breathe in this crush.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Lorrie followed her mother ou
tside, standing beside columns that supported a stone canopy sheltering those outside from the rain. It did not provide any heat, and the rain had brought a bracing chill with it. In her thin silk dress and summer wrap, Lorrie shivered. The Viking had followed them out, but he seemed impervious to the weather.

  “Mr. Mostyn, is that our barouche?” the duchess asked, pointing to a black conveyance that looked very much like every other carriage.

  He stared and frowned, apparently unable to tell in the dark. “One moment,” he said, moving closer to the line of carriages.

  Lorrie wrapped her arms around her middle to try and keep warm.

  “Hey, watch where you step!” a man barked angrily to her right.

  “I’ll bloody well step where I want,” was the answer.

  “Lorraine, move closer to me,” her mother ordered, but it was too late.

  The men behind her exchanged punches and stumbled drunkenly into the street. Unfortunately, Lorrie had been swept along with them. She tripped over her skirts and fell backward into an ice-cold, muddy puddle. The shock of the cold water snatched the last bit of sleepy warmth from her mind, and she struggled to rise. Unfortunately, her skirts had tangled about her ankles and the rain was falling hard enough to obscure her vision. Her gloves made untangling the wet material of dress and cloak all the more difficult. A moment later, she let out a small scream when the men who had fallen to the ground beside her all but rolled over her, their fists flying and jabbing. With a renewed sense of urgency she ripped at the sodden fabric clinging to her legs and gained her feet. But the men—impervious to her struggles or even her presence, it seemed—rolled over like boulders and knocked her off balance again. Like a set of pins in a game of skittles, she toppled over, but this time she didn’t tumble into the puddle. The arms that caught her felt as hard and unyielding as the ground, but they swept her up not down.

  Lorrie blinked the water out of her eyes and looked into the Viking’s face as he lifted her away from the two fighting men. His jaw was as tight as a drum, his blue eyes filled with ice. His touch was gentle, though. He carried her as one might carry a young child, and she felt as though she weighed little more than a child. As his heat seeped into her chilled body, she had the strangest urge to close her eyes and lay her head on his chest. Initially, she hadn’t been frightened by the dueling men. She’d been annoyed that she’d been inadvertently involved. But the second time their antics felled her, panic had crept in. A carriage might run her over or one of the men might accidentally punch her or kick her in the head with a flailing foot. Both were so inebriated they didn’t even seem aware of her.

  But now, in the Viking’s arms, all panic and fear subsided. His warm body held hers gently, shielding her from the worst of the rain and the prying eyes of spectators. She could hear them exclaiming about the duke’s daughter, and though she probably should have made it known she was uninjured, she did not want everyone gaping at the state of her dress and the mess that she knew was her hair and her face.

  Nor did she wish to pull her nose from the sweet smell of pine and spruce that seemed to cling to the Viking. If she could block out the noise of the city, she could almost imagine she were in the peaceful countryside, under the stars.

  And then a carriage door opened, and she was placed gently inside. “What the hell happened?” her father demanded, taking her by the arms. Lorrie squinted at the light from the carriage lamp.

  Her brother was beside the duchess and her father sat across from them, his face white with concern.

  “I told you,” her mother said. “Two idiots began a brawl and Lorraine was caught in the middle. Thank God Mostyn was there.”

  “He should have been at her side all along, and this never would have happened,” the duke answered, then banged his cane on the roof of the carriage. Then he withdrew his greatcoat and dropped it over Lorrie’s shivering form.

  At the signal for the coachman to depart, Lorrie pulled away from her father and looked about the barouche. “Where is Mr. Mostyn?” He was not inside with the rest of the party, and she couldn’t describe why, but she felt his loss keenly.

  “How should I know?” her father answered. “He shoved you inside, slammed the door, and disappeared.”

  “I know,” Neville said, pointing through the slit he’d made in the curtains. “He just hauled both of those men up off the ground and knocked them senseless.”

  “Oh Lord!” her mother cried. “The man is a barbarian.” She turned to her husband, pointing. “What sort of man have you employed?”

  But the Duke of Ridlington’s expression conveyed anything but apology. “Exactly the sort we need.”

  * * *

  Charles Caldwell, the Duke of Ridlington, stood at the door joining his chamber to his wife’s and stared. He’d stood here many nights over the years before retreating to his large, empty bed. He could not remember when or why the rift between Susan and him had begun, only that it had grown larger and larger over the years.

  But these last few months, watching his daughter fall in love with the wrong man had brought memories of his youth and instant infatuation with Lady Susan. At the time, it had seemed the perfect match, but lately he had begun to wonder if he’d made a mistake. Perhaps his father should have prevented him from marrying Susan, as he sought to prevent Lorrie from marrying Francis Mostyn.

  Or perhaps it was not he who had made a mistake, but Susan. Charles hadn’t tried to make amends when they first began to drift apart, when their conversations had become shorter and curter, when she’d sent him from her room with complaints of a megrim.

  Perhaps if he hadn’t sought solace in another woman’s arms, she would not have sought out her own lovers. But his pride had been hurt, first by her rejection and then by her adultery.

  He should have put his foot down at her first infidelity. Instead, he’d allowed his anger and jealousy to burn until he could barely look at her. He’d been too full of pride to let her know she’d hurt him. Too aware of his own failings as a husband to blame her.

  Perhaps if he’d done any or all of these things, he would not be standing on the other side of her door alone, as usual.

  They had been wed more than a quarter of a century, and though he had not loved her on the day of the wedding, he’d fallen in love with her before the end of their honeymoon. He had thought she had come to love him too. Those early years had been full of nights spent dancing until dawn followed by long, lazy days tangled naked in bed. Then came the birth of their children, three perfect little babies they had both loved more than they’d ever expected.

  But something had happened as the children grew into youths. Susan had been tired and distant. He had been preoccupied. There were fewer nights of dancing until dawn and no more days romping in bed. One night he woke in his mistress’s bed and wondered what the hell he was doing.

  He didn’t love his mistress. He didn’t even like her. She couldn’t replace Susan. None of his paramours could, and that night he had decided it was past time he tried filling the hole she had left in his heart and made an effort to win Susan back.

  Thus, the last few months standing before their adjoining door.

  What a coward he was. What a bloody coward.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the door, calling to mind the image of Susan in the green gown she’d worn to the opera tonight. She’d looked radiant, as she always did. Her small, lush form was barely contained by the gown’s rounded neckline and straight skirts.

  And then when Lorrie had been injured in that ridiculous commotion, Susan had gone into the rain after their daughter before Mostyn had stepped in. Charles could not quite forget the way Susan’s skirts had clung to her legs when she’d climbed in the carriage.

  He wanted her back. He wanted her body, but more than that, he wanted her heart.

  And if he couldn’t muster the courage to take what he wanted now, h
e didn’t deserve her. Before he could turn and walk away, he knocked on the door and pushed down on the latch.

  To his surprise, the door opened. He had expected it to be locked, though he never called on her and there was no reason for her to lock it. So when the door opened, he all but stumbled inside the pretty chamber done in greens and golds. Sitting at her dressing table, her maid brushing her long dark hair, Susan looked up, hazel eyes cool.

  If she was surprised to see him, she did not show it. “Alice, leave us, please.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The woman who had been Susan’s lady’s maid for more than a dozen years gave a quick curtsy and all but ran from the room. This might very well have been the first time the servant had seen the duke enter the duchess’s bedchamber.

  When the door closed and they were alone, Susan lifted her brush and pulled it through her hair again. “I assume you came to ask about Lorrie. I had Nell give her a warm bath and put her to bed. She is fine. Very little rankles that girl.”

  Charles nodded. “She is much like her mother.”

  Susan set the brush on the dressing table, turning to face him. She wore a white robe over a thin nightgown. He could not see the nightgown, but the V of the robe showed a generous amount of cleavage. Her breasts were still high and ripe, and he wondered if her skin would still smell faintly of roses.

  “What do you want, Charles? Surely you have not come to claim your conjugal rights.”

  She was nothing if not direct, and he was actually rather thankful for the opening. “And if I have?”

  “I will tell you to go back to your bed.”

  “Because your lover would object.”

  “I have no lover at present. Wouldn’t your mistress object?”

  “I have no mistress.”