by Shana Galen
Her brows rose. “Of course. Do you?”
He nodded. “You wore a green gown with a yellow…what do you call them? Panel or opening or cutaway? The dresses were wider then so I had no sense of what lovely legs you had, but the bodice was low enough that I could hardly breathe.”
“I remember I was laced so tightly I could hardly breathe.”
“One dance and I knew I wanted you for my wife.”
Her eyes registered surprise. “You mean you knew you wanted me out of the dress.”
“I was not so randy that I would have married you just to take you to bed. You were the first young woman I met who could make me laugh, who talked to me as if I were a man not solely the heir to a dukedom, who I could see myself growing old with.”
“Charles…” She looked away and stopped dancing.
He placed a finger under her chin and brought her gaze back to his. “I still feel that way, Susan. I have sent you gifts, written you love poems—”
“Bad love poems.” But she smiled.
“What more can I do? I want to be your husband again. I want one more chance.”
She looked down.
“What are you afraid of?”
“You,” she murmured. “You broke my heart once, and I know I broke yours as well. I don’t want to hurt you again. I don’t want to be hurt again.”
He bent and met her gaze. “I will not hurt you again. I promise. I am older. Wiser.”
“I’m not ready.”
He felt as though he were a fish, flayed for her pleasure, all of his guts spilled out before her. And still it wasn’t enough. But if she needed time, he had that in droves.
He stepped back. “Then I shall wait.”
Her brows lowered. “For how long?”
“Forever.”
She winced. “I never knew you were such a romantic. Poetry, flowery words—”
“Then here are more flowery words for you. I love you, Susan.” He held a hand up. “No, do not say anything. I expect no response. I want you to know my feelings while you consider your own. Now, Your Grace, may I escort you back to the ball?”
She took his arm. “You may.”
Fifteen
“I must go, Nell,” Lorrie said for the third time that morning. “With or without you.”
“It’s not safe, my lady,” Nell answered, wringing her hands.
“Yes, all of those men trying to abduct me for my fortune. That is why I will not go alone. You can protect me.”
“Oh, my lady.” More wringing of hands and pleading from Nell’s blue eyes, now slightly ringed with red. “Can’t you go tomorrow?”
Nell had been granted a full day off the following day. Her sister had given birth the day before, and Nell had asked for and been granted time to see her new nephew.
“No. I want to go today. Look.” She dumped her sewing basket over—which delighted Welly, who grabbed a bit of yarn and ran off with it—and lifted two veils from under the scraps of fabric and unfinished embroidery. “We will wear these. No one will recognize us.”
“But what if someone does, my lady? This isn’t at all proper.”
“It’s not as if we will be in St. James’s at night. It’s only slightly forbidden to women during the day.”
Nell made another plea for her mistress to reconsider, but Lorrie had already tucked the veils under her pelisse. She had to see Ewan Mostyn, and nothing Nell said would convince her otherwise.
Two nights ago, at the conclusion of the Dewhursts’ ball, Ewan had put her in the carriage with her parents, informed the party he would see them the following day, and closed the door. After the musicale last night he’d done the same thing. Her parents had not remarked on it. Why should they care if the hired help chose to sleep God knew where as long as he was present when required?
The problem was that Ewan had chosen to sleep at the duke’s town house so many other nights. They’d spent hours together in the predawn, huddled close while she read to him.
And now he made those meetings impossible, and she must meet with him because she had finally solved his father’s problem. She knew how to save Pembroke, and she couldn’t even tell Ewan because he wouldn’t see her.
And it was her fault. Lorrie didn’t think it any coincidence that Ewan had chosen to avoid her after he’d caught her in Francis’s arms. He’d seen her with Francis before, at the prince’s ball, and the look on his face that night had been impatient and angry.
But at the Dewhursts’ ball Ewan had looked more hurt than angry. And it was her fault he felt betrayed.
She had to tell him there was no reason to be hurt. She didn’t care about Francis. But more importantly, she had to tell him her plan to save Pembroke.
“We’ll tell my mother we are going out shopping,” Lorrie told Nell, who seemed finally to have resigned herself to her fate and put a shawl around her shoulders.
“What if she wants to come, my lady?”
“She won’t. She has charitable meetings all day—if that’s what you want to call afternoon liaisons with her lover. She won’t want us along when she sneaks off to see him.”
“Oh dear.” Nell pressed her hands to her cheeks, which were bright red, almost as red as her hair. “I don’t think you should say such things, my lady.”
Lorrie shrugged. “What other explanation is there? No one can be that charitable. You needn’t pretend the staff never gossips about such matters.”
“Of course I must pretend, my lady. Just as I’ll pretend today that I don’t know you plan to see a man in his private rooms.”
Lorrie flashed her maid a warning look. “Nothing untoward will happen. I only need to speak with him for a minute or two. You can wait downstairs, and I will return so quickly you’ll hardly know I was gone.”
“But a gambling hell, my lady!” Nell’s hands went to her cheeks again. “That’s the devil’s work.”
Lorrie tried very hard not to roll her eyes. “Then do not gamble. I won’t ask you to throw the dice, only wait a few minutes while I speak to Mr. Mostyn. Come on.”
Lorrie found her mother in the drawing room and informed her of the plan to go shopping, taking Nell along, of course. Her mother suggested she also bring a footman to carry the packages, but Lorrie said she only planned to look, not buy more than a hat or a book, and Nell could certainly manage those. Then because her mother looked as though she might insist on the footman, Lorrie suggested the duchess come with them. To her surprise, her mother almost looked regretful to decline. Lorrie began to wonder if perhaps her mother really was spending afternoons attending meetings for hospitals and orphanages, and if the duchess might not wish to go out with her daughter for a bit of shopping instead.
Before her mother could insist on a footman, Lorrie took Nell’s arm and hurried her outside. The day was cool and cloudy, but it was not so cold they could not walk to St. James’s Street. Nell walked a step or two behind Lorrie, but Lorrie could hear the maid clearly enough when she spoke.
“I don’t suppose this meeting has anything to do with the time you and Mr. M spend in the library together every night.”
Lorrie stopped, and Nell plowed into her.
“You know about that?”
Nell gave her an innocent smile. “I am good at pretending.”
“I’m helping Mr…M with an estate issue,” Lorrie said, hoping he would not mind if she revealed a little of his private affairs. “That’s all. Nothing sordid about reading documents and land surveys.”
“Nothing sordid at all, my lady.”
Lorrie began to walk again.
“Is that what you will be doing at Langley’s, my lady? Reading land surveys?”
Lorrie didn’t answer. When they neared St. James’s Street, Lorrie ducked into a small shop selling soaps and perfumes. She pretended to browse. Before leaving, she donned
her veil and made Nell do the same.
The rest of the walk was made in what seemed like twilight. Through the dark netting, everything looked shadowy and sinister. By the time she reached Langley’s she was shaking with fright.
She told herself to stop acting like a child. What was the worst that could happen? Her identity would be discovered? That would make her life difficult for a little while, but her life wouldn’t be in any danger.
Lorrie stood before the door and studied it. The hell looked closed. It was barely noon, and as most of the ton was only just rising at this hour, there was no need for an establishment catering to the upper classes to open its doors this early.
And since the doors were closed, how to gain access?
“Have you reconsidered, my lady?” Nell asked.
“No.” Lorrie took a breath, telling herself she had not reconsidered. “Should I knock?”
“I think it might be better if we go in. Harder to kick someone out than refuse entrance.”
That was true enough. Nell seemed to have resigned herself to this outing and apparently wanted it over and done.
Lorrie reached for the door and pushed it open. She was immediately assaulted by the odors of tobacco, spirits, and leather. These masculine scents were familiar to her, having lived with a father and three brothers.
She entered a small hallway, lined with hooks for coats and hats. At the end of the short hallway was another closed door, this one dark, polished mahogany. Lorrie pushed past the empty hooks and opened the door. It swung in, and she stared at a large room with a high ceiling. The floors were carpeted in deep crimson, like the red and black damask of the walls, and green baize tables, some with chairs and some without, were scattered throughout the room. Mirrors lined the room, above paneled walls. Beautiful gold and crystal chandeliers hung throughout the room and must have made it glitter with light when the candles were lit.
At present the room was shadowed as only a few lamps sat here and there and two maids swept floors and dusted tables. Lorrie took a cautious step inside. “It doesn’t look like a den of iniquity,” she whispered to Nell.
“Looks can be deceiving, my lady.”
“Excuse me,” Lorrie called to one of the maids, who looked up from her sweeping and eyed the two women in the door with suspicion. “Could you tell me where I might find Mr. Mostyn?”
The servant put her hand on her waist. “And who wants him?”
Lorrie looked back at Nell, wondering what response she was to make to this impertinence. Unfortunately, Nell’s face was as shrouded as her own.
“A friend,” Lorrie said finally. “I don’t mean him any harm.”
The servant with her hand on her waist harrumphed. “We’re closed right now. You’ll have to come back later.”
Lorrie’s spirits sank. She couldn’t return later. Later the street would be full of young bucks who might accost her or, worse, recognize her. Later she would be at some affair or another, and there would be no opportunity to speak to Ewan.
“Ignore her,” said the other maid, lowering her duster. “Mr. Mostyn will be either in the kitchen or in his room. I haven’t seen him come out this morning, so my guess is in his room. Second floor. His name is on the door.”
“Why did you tell them that?” the first maid asked, spinning on the other.
The dusting maid shrugged. “There’s no harm in it, Meg.” She went back to her work, while the one named Meg gave them both cool stares.
Lorrie leaned close to Nell. “I will knock on the door to his room. You stay here.”
Nell blew out a breath that fluttered the veil. No doubt she did not wish to spend any more time with the unfriendly Meg than she had to.
“I’ll be right back.”
She hoped.
Lorrie lifted her skirts and ascended the gently curving stairway. At the top, a hallway circled the room, serving as a balcony. Guests could stand all along the edge and watch the gambling below.
Lorrie started around the hall, stopping to peer at the name placards on each. She was acutely aware she was being watched from below and also aware that she was doing what no proper lady should do—visiting a man alone in his rooms.
Finally, she stopped before a room with Mr. Mostyn written in elegant script on a small card in the little gold cardholder. Lorrie stood and listened for a moment but heard nothing on the other side. Lifting her hand, she tapped quietly on the door.
No sound.
She tapped again, this time louder. Finally, she heard what sounded like a curse and then a thump. The door did not open, and Lorrie began to wonder if perhaps coming here unannounced was the wisest course of action. What if Ewan was not alone? What if he’d been staying in his rooms here because he had a paramour?
She was about to turn and rush back down the stairs when the door swung open and the man himself stood before her. Lorrie forgot why she had come, forgot her own name. She simply stared at the expanse of bare muscled chest on display, her eyes unable to comprehend that this was a man and not a statue. He was too perfectly formed.
Gradually, her gaze moved up to his broad, square shoulders—shoulders that looked as though they had been sculpted from marble. Then there was the neck she was familiar with, followed by the square jaw, glinting with pale blond whiskers, the almost straight nose that had been broken at least once and probably more, and the piercing blue eyes that looked so much like a cloudless summer day she could all but feel the breeze.
“Mr. Mostyn.” She gave a trembling curtsy.
He didn’t move, and she realized he might not know who she was. She lifted her veil, and he blew out a long breath. “What do you want?”
What did she want? Something… “I wanted to speak with you a moment. May I come in?”
“No.” He moved to close the door, but she shoved her shoulder against it. This would not in the least have prevented him from closing it, but it made him pause. “Go home.”
“Well,” she huffed, straining against the door. “I see you have forgotten your manners.”
“My manners? You come to my room. Uninvited. You, a lady. In a gaming hell. In St. James’s. And you speak to me of manners?”
That was quite a speech for a man of few words. She must have angered him more than she anticipated. “I will be on my way as soon as we speak.”
“Speak.”
He made no attempt at deference, didn’t call her my lady or Lady Lorraine as he always did at her father’s house or when they were out in Society. This was his territory, and she held no power here. She might very well regret what she was about to say, but she hadn’t come all this way not to risk something.
“May we speak inside your chamber? I don’t wish an audience.” She glanced over her shoulder. The maids and Nell were probably too far away to hear them, but they could see them easily enough. In fact, all three women were looking up.
And then she remembered her earlier fears. “Unless, that is, you are not alone?”
“I’m alone. All the more reason for you to stay outside.”
Lorrie waved her hand. “I’m not concerned. You are such a gentleman.”
He gave a low laugh that seemed to reverberate through her. “No, I am not.” But he stepped aside, giving her the first view of his private chamber. She stepped forward, keenly aware that he wore only a pair of charcoal trousers. Keeping her gaze forward, she noted the spartan white walls, the unembellished furnishings, the lack of any clutter or personal items anywhere. The bed was the only piece in the room worth noting. It alone spoke of comfort as the mattress was thick and the coverlet plush. At the moment, the sheets were mussed as though he had just woken.
He moved to the window and pushed one side of a gray curtain open, allowing more light inside. But the light revealed nothing new in the room. It might have been anyone’s room as it was completely impersonal.
&n
bsp; “You are inside. Talk.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, making the muscles bunch. Lorrie tried to think of what she had wanted to say, but since she had seen his bare chest, she couldn’t seem to remember anything.
“Might you put on a shirt?” she asked.
“My room.”
That wasn’t exactly an answer, but she deduced that he would not don a shirt. He must not have minded standing in front of her half naked. Lorrie looked away, hoping seeing something other than the half-naked sculpture before her would help her concentrate.
But, of course, her gaze landed on the bed. Did he bring women here and take them to that bed? It was not a large bed. A woman would have to press herself close to him if sharing it.
“It is rather warm in here,” she said, feeling stifled all of a sudden. “Do you mind if I removed my pelisse?” She drew off her gloves and undid the fastenings, then laid both gloves and wrap on the bed. Next, she unpinned her veil and dropped it beside them.
“Take anything else off, and I won’t be held responsible.”
Lorrie’s eyes snapped to his face. Nothing had changed in it, but when she looked very closely it appeared his jaw might have tensed, slightly. She was sorely tempted to remove another item of clothing—a boot perhaps—just to see what he would do. To catch a glimpse of Ewan Mostyn acting irresponsibly. But she was too much of a coward. And she’d remembered why she’d come.
“You haven’t been to the library,” she said.
He looked at her, arms still crossed, jaw tightening as though he was clenching it and releasing.
“What about your father’s predicament?”
“I was hired to protect you. On my own time, I needn’t entertain you.”
That was a slap in the face. Had he really thought that was how she saw him? As entertainment? “I wanted to help you.”
“Why?” His eyes narrowed.
“Because I know you want to help your father, and it would make your life better if some of what happened in the past was made right.”