Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  The team had returned and stormed the armory. They’d lost a man, but they’d killed a lot more of Napoleon’s soldiers and replenished their stores of weapons and food. Ewan had learned a valuable lesson. Never let your guard down.

  Lady Lorraine wasn’t quite as dangerous as the soldiers at the armory but she was every bit as wily, and Ewan didn’t intend to be stuffed in a chimney ever again. He’d cut the branch down himself if he had to.

  She might be determined, but so was he. If it came to a test of wills, Ewan had no doubt he could best her.

  He wandered back inside and slumped in a chair in his bedchamber. He liked the chamber better in the dark than the light. The room had been done in blue and gold, and while it was very regal, it made him uncomfortable.

  Lady Lorraine made him equally uncomfortable. She’d asked why he’d kissed her at Carlton House, and it was a fair question. Why the hell had he kissed her? He’d asked himself that a thousand times. At the time he’d told himself it was to prove to her that Francis was not the only man who could kiss her and evoke a response.

  But he hadn’t been prepared for his own response. Apparently, hers had been equally as charged. Ewan wouldn’t have said she’d thrown herself at him, but it had taken more willpower than it should have to resist kissing her when she’d all but demanded it of him. He’d grown uncomfortably hard when she’d begun talking about her needs and desires. Ewan had never considered that women might have the same urges men had. He’d never taken an unwilling woman to his bed, and he did not consider himself a selfish lover, but he had never thought about why the women wanted to go to his bed.

  Lady Lorraine had mentioned feeling deprived of touch and affection. But those feelings weren’t as wicked as she might think. He’d been similarly deprived and had learned to shove those needs down deep. Her response was to marry Francis Mostyn. But Ewan had no illusions that his cousin was in love with Lady Lorraine. He wanted her dowry, and once he had it, he would discard his wife like a browning apple core.

  But even if Ewan had been able to express these thoughts in words, he had no right to mention them. He had no proof Francis would treat her badly. Given enough time, she might forget Francis. Her father certainly counted on her meeting another man who turned her head. Her mother made every effort to throw eligible men—young and old—in her path.

  But in that way Lady Lorraine reminded him of himself. She was loyal to a fault. She thought herself in love with Francis, and she would not consider other men.

  Ewan was trained to look for chinks in his opponent’s armor. When a man tended to shift to the right before throwing a punch, Ewan hit him on the left. If a man liked to jab low with a dagger, Ewan jumped on a table and made him jab high.

  Throw off your opponent had been as much his mantra as Control and restraint.

  And the kiss he’d given Lady Lorraine had thrown her off and challenged his control. Chagrined as he was to admit it, he was the chink in the lady’s armor.

  Ewan had never considered himself a man of honor. He left concerns about honor and duty to Wraxall. Ewan had no qualms about fighting dirty. But he was no rake. He didn’t take advantage of women. He didn’t seduce innocents or pretend a night of passion was anything more than a physical release. As he’d told Lady Lorraine, he didn’t pretend.

  But what was the more honorable course of action in this case? Use the lady’s desire for him against her or allow her to be duped by his arse of a cousin?

  Ewan didn’t have the answer, but he was certain of one thing. Something must be done about Francis Mostyn.

  The next morning Ewan realized it was already too late.

  Nine

  Breakfast was usually a tedious affair. Lorrie and whichever of her brothers were home—today that was neither—ate in silence while the duke read the Times. Her mother breakfasted in bed and rarely showed herself until well after noon. This morning Lorrie pushed eggs about on her plate while she contemplated the large pile of correspondence to which she must reply followed by the hours she must spend dressing in order to look presentable for whichever ball she need attend tonight.

  She was about to close her eyes and attempt to nap until she could be excused when the dining room door opened and the Viking strode in. Every single one of Lorrie’s senses came alive then, much to her annoyance. She certainly did not want to notice how his trousers clung to his muscled thighs or how broad his shoulders appeared even in a coat that was somewhat less than fashionable. But then the Viking did not care about fashion, else he would have worn a cravat and breeches instead of leaving his neck bare and donning trousers.

  His icy blue eyes rested on her for a moment before he nodded to her father.

  The duke lowered his paper. “Good morning, Mostyn. I wondered when you would finally join us for breakfast.”

  The Viking made a sound and proceeded to fill a plate with three servings of every dish on the sideboard. Lorrie tried not to watch him and instead concentrated on her own barely touched food. But she couldn’t help but gape at the mountain of food he set at the place directly across from her. He lowered himself into the chair with more grace than she would have expected. When Bellweather inquired as to whether he might like coffee or tea, the Viking answered, “Yes.”

  The duke laid his paper on the table. “Lorrie,” he said. She sighed, wishing he would return to ignoring her.

  “What do you have planned for today?”

  The Viking raised his eyes from his plate to glance at her. She tried not to blush, but she remembered all too well the fool she had made of herself the night before. She’d all but thrown herself at him in the garden.

  “I have letters to write and then must prepare for the Godfreys’ ball, Papa.”

  “Good. I always say one must never neglect one’s correspondence.”

  Lorrie gave him a tight smile.

  “And you, Mr. Mostyn,” the duke said, turning to look at the Viking who had managed to eat almost half of his breakfast already. “What are your plans?”

  Lorrie expected the man to give a one-word answer, but instead he set his fork on his plate. “There’s a tree in the garden that must be cut down.”

  Lorrie’s eyes widened, but she bit her lips before she could say something she would regret later.

  “You wish to trim the trees?” the duke said slowly.

  “Not personally.”

  “I see. We might hire men to do the work, but the gardener has not recommended any such action.”

  “I was in the garden last night. One of the tree limbs brushes against Lady Lorraine’s window. The tree must be removed.”

  It was the first time she’d heard her name on his lips, and it almost surprised her that he knew it.

  “A storm might break the glass.”

  “It might.” Her father cut a look at her, and Lorrie looked back at her eggs, now cold and congealing.

  “Speak to the gardener. He will know whom to hire for the job. I trust you will accompany us to the Godfreys tonight.”

  The Viking nodded and returned to his breakfast. He ate efficiently, managing to consume vast quantities without shoveling the food in his mouth. In very little time he rose to fill his plate again.

  The duke lifted his paper, and Lorrie opened her mouth to beg to be excused when one of the footmen entered carrying a silver salver with a white letter on top. Lorrie expected Caleb to bring the letter to her father. Parliament was in session, and he received dozens of letters each week, but instead the footman stood beside the Viking’s chair. The Viking, having filled his plate again, returned to his seat, giving the man barely a glance before he began to eat again.

  “A letter came for you, sir,” the footman said, lowering the tray.

  The Viking gave the servant a look of incredulity, then laid down his fork and took the letter. Lorrie made no pretense of watching the entire exchange. She suspect
ed her father peered over the top of his paper as well. She wouldn’t have been so intrigued except that, despite having attended a dozen events with him, she had never seen the Viking so much as speak to another man or a woman without having to do so out of politeness. The man truly did not appear to have any friends or even acquaintances, at least not among the ton.

  And so when he received a letter, she could not help but be curious. She craned her neck to read the envelope and caught not only Mr. Mostyn’s name—the Honorable Ewan Mostyn—but the name of the sender—the Earl of Pembroke.

  The Viking’s father had sent him a letter. She watched as he lifted the letter from the tray, and stared at it, his brow furrowed as though it was some sort of foreign object. Then his gaze met hers and he tucked the letter into his coat pocket. She hadn’t expected him to read it aloud, but she felt a sense of disappointment nonetheless.

  Finally, the Viking went back to his food, and her father pretended he had never taken his eyes from the paper, and Lorrie was able to take her leave. She collected Welly and went directly to the parlor in the front of the house, whose window faced the park in Berkley Square and which was usually filled with sun this time of year. As the day was cloudy and overcast, she had to light a candle in order to write. She’d spent perhaps an hour or so in that manner, Welly drowsing at her feet and her pen steadily scratching along on the vellum, when her candle sputtered out. She hadn’t taken the time to trim the wick, and it had doubled over into the wax. She searched the desk for another and finding none rose to seek out the housekeeper and ask her for another candle or perhaps a lamp.

  Lorrie hadn’t closed the parlor door all the way and pulled it open without making a sound. Consequently, the Viking must not have heard her step into the vestibule for he stood there, letter in hand, his lips working silently. Something about the way he stared at the letter and moved his mouth reminded her of the few times she had gone to the village school to judge the students’ oration or to listen as they recited Shakespearean sonnets. Such was the life of a duke’s daughter while in the country. But those had been children just learning to read, and the Viking was a grown man.

  Suddenly he looked up at her, and for an instant she saw what seemed to be embarrassment cross his face.

  “Can’t you read it?” she asked without even thinking.

  “What the devil do you care?” he said, with rather more heat than she had anticipated.

  Her defenses were immediately engaged. “I don’t. I thought you had a tree to cut down.”

  “I do.”

  Lorrie settled her hands on her hips. “That’s not necessary, you know. That tree has been there for as long as the family has owned the house. If you—” She became aware of a maid dusting nearby. “Alice, could you ask Mrs. Davies to bring me a lamp? I need more light in the parlor.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid curtsied and started away. Lorrie didn’t believe for a moment she would rush to find the housekeeper if she thought there was something more interesting to be heard in the vestibule. Lorrie beckoned the Viking to join her in the parlor.

  He shook his head, and she scowled at him. “For the sake of the tree, I must ask you to listen to what I have to say. You may stand on one side of the room, and I will stand on the other.” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “I won’t throw myself at you, I promise.”

  Now he had the good sense to look about him, and whatever he saw must have convinced him speaking to her in private was worth a few moments of his time. He joined her in the parlor, and this time she did close the door. She held up a hand to stave off any protest he might make. “This way we won’t be overheard.” She took up her position beside the desk, while he stood nearer the fire. “As I was saying, there’s no need to cut the tree down. I find I have rather a strong attachment to that tree. If I promise not to use it to sneak out again, will you spare it?”

  “No.”

  Lorrie heaved a great sigh. Speaking to the man was like trying to coax her straight hair into the curls so fashionable at present—an onerous chore. “Why not?”

  He stared past her, looking out the window.

  “You don’t trust me, is that it? I am giving you my word.”

  “I would feel better if all sources of temptation were removed.”

  “If you think me that bad, then perhaps you should remove yourself. I am embarrassed at my demands on you last night.” Her cheeks heated as she spoke, but she kept her shoulders back and her back straight. “And yet I am able to resist throwing myself at you this morning.”

  His eyes grew wary as though he half expected her to pounce at any moment.

  Oh, but the man vexed her. “Dare I hope your father has some urgent news that requires you to return home?”

  He started, appearing shocked at her words.

  “Your father.” She gestured to the letter he still held in his hands. “When Caleb delivered it, I saw it had come from the Earl of Pembroke.”

  The Viking looked down at it again, his eyes squinting.

  “Didn’t you read it?” she asked.

  His gaze came up quickly, the ice so sharp it might have sliced through her.

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Lorrie blinked in surprise. “Of course not. You’re the least stupid man I know, which I find rather annoying, by the way. I cannot seem to manage to maneuver around you. Still, it is early days. I may yet discover a way. Why would you believe I think you are stupid?”

  He looked down at the letter and then back at her.

  Something prickled at the back of her neck, something she had not considered before. But she could not seem to forget the way his lips had moved when he’d looked at the letter. Before he’d known he was being observed.

  “You can read, can’t you?”

  “Excuse me.” He started for the door. Lorrie remained rooted in place. Illiteracy was nothing new to her. Most of the poor and the lower classes could not read or write. Half of the servants her father employed were probably illiterate. But of course the Viking could read. He was no poor farmer or chimney sweep. He was the son of an earl who would have been given every advantage in life.

  But if he could read, why hadn’t he answered her question?

  “You can’t, can you?” she said as he reached for the door latch. “That’s why you were surprised when I mentioned your father. You didn’t know the letter was from him.”

  He lifted the latch without looking at her, apparently unwilling to either confirm or deny her suppositions. A moment later, he was gone, and Lorrie was annoyed enough to want to put him from her mind completely.

  And that was exactly what she intended to do until she found herself squinting in the gloomy light—drat that Alice!—at the escritoire as she drew a picture on a slip of foolscap.

  * * *

  Ewan had supervised the tree trimming himself. He’d intended to have the men remove the tree closest to the town house, but for some reason he was unwilling to consider too deeply, he only removed the branch closest to the window of the duke’s daughter. She would have to be daft to attempt to use any of the other branches to make a descent. Not that she wasn’t daft. Most women were daft. But he had reason to hope she was only mostly daft, not completely daft.

  It was late by the time the men finished and Ewan was able to venture into the kitchens and eat two bowls of soup and three sandwiches. The family would dine at the ball, but it was anyone’s guess as to when supper would be served. It was bad enough he must endure the torture of a neckcloth, but he would not do so on an empty stomach.

  Since he had no desire to revisit the conversation Lady Lorraine had begun earlier, he paid little attention to her when the family departed—this time her older brother Charles was with them. The Marquess of Perrin seemed to like to hear himself talk, so there was even less opportunity for his sister to speak to Ewan.

  Now he understood how i
t was she could talk so much. She must have learned it from her brother. Undoubtedly, if she hadn’t learned to speak up and make herself heard, no one would have noticed her at all.

  Ewan was almost hopeful Lady Lorraine had forgotten all about the conversation in the parlor as well. He stood in a corner, watching her dance with the same men she danced with at every ball. They were mostly harmless, and only one or two required his full attention. He’d made a sweep of the house during the first set and had not seen his cousin anywhere. Now he surveyed the room continually to make certain the man did not appear.

  It was almost midnight when Ewan realized Lady Lorraine was standing before him. “Thank you, Lord Drake,” she said with a polite smile. “Mr. Mostyn will escort me in to supper.”

  Her partner bowed and moved away, throwing a look of disappointment over his shoulder. Ewan was surprised the bell had been rung for dinner. He hadn’t even heard it, and that was unusual.

  And as Lady Lorraine had made clear at the first ball they’d attended, she did not want Ewan to escort her anywhere. Ewan was rightly suspicious of this change.

  “Shall we go in?” she asked, looping her arm through his. Ewan looked down at her white-gloved arm, so stark against the dark blue of his sleeve.

  “No.”

  She gave him a less than polite smile. “Someone must escort me, and as you are the only unaccompanied man here at the moment, I fear it must be you.”

  She was correct, not that Ewan gave a damn about the rules of Society. But he’d taken this position and there was unpleasantness associated with every occupation. He led her toward the supper room.

  “What was wrong with him?” he asked.

  “Not a thing. He tells the most amusing stories about his time in the Americas. Pray seat me next to him so he might regale me through dinner.”

  Ewan thought she should have allowed the man to regale her on the walk to the supper room. He didn’t like being this close to her. He could detect her scent of vanilla and cream even when surrounded by a hundred others.