Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  His loathing was so strong and so incomprehensible that Ewan regained control of his body and stepped out from behind the topiary.

  Francis saw him first, and he stiffened and stepped back, putting a respectable distance between himself and Lady Lorraine. His expression was wary and, to Ewan’s satisfaction, frightened. The lady spun around as well, but her face showed no fear, only annoyance. She gave a long sigh. “Mr. Mostyn, I believe you know your cousin, Mr. Mostyn.”

  “Ewan.” Francis looked him up and down. “We seem to keep meeting. Run along now. Lady Lorraine and I were having a private word.”

  Ewan held out his hand to Lady Lorraine. “Come.”

  “I see your vocabulary remains much the same,” Francis remarked. “As I’m certain you will use your simple grunts and growls to inform His Grace about this meeting, be sure to mention that I did nothing improper.”

  “More’s the pity,” Lady Lorraine muttered. “At least the lecture and scolding would have been worth it.”

  Ewan had the urge to laugh. Instead, he beckoned her with his outstretched hand. She did not take it. “I am not a dog, Mr. Mostyn. You needn’t crook your finger at me.”

  Francis bowed. “I see I am no longer needed. My lady, sleep well tonight. I will see you…soon.” With what Ewan perceived was to be a meaningful look, Francis marched in the direction of Carlton House.

  Since the lady seemed to have such an objection to them, Ewan folded his arms across his chest. He waited for her to speak. He felt he should say something, but he was not certain what that something should be. He had supposed Francis to be taking advantage of the lady, while it appeared she was the one intent on ruination. Francis was no paragon of honor and virtue, and Ewan would have liked little more than to beat the man to a pulp. But he could not fault his cousin for the scene he’d witnessed tonight.

  “You won’t tell my father, will you?” Lady Lorraine finally broke the silence.

  Ewan let out a breath of surprised air—half laugh, half incredulity.

  The lady grasped his forearm. “If you do, it will not only doom me, but it will reflect badly on you as well.”

  Ewan inclined his head, acknowledging the point. He’d made mistakes before, and he always took his punishment like a man. He was not much of a gentleman, but he had retained enough of his upbringing to know that one did not lie or cheat to avoid trouble. One faced the consequences of his mistakes with head held high. “Then so be it.”

  She gaped at him. “You do not even care? You will be dismissed.”

  Ewan blew out a breath. He did care. He cared very much, much more than he wanted to admit to.

  Her hand on his forearm tightened, and he looked down at her. The damned chit was shivering with cold. Ewan was impervious to all but the coldest temperatures, but she looked almost blue. “Very well. Tell him. Nothing happened anyway.”

  “Not for your lack of trying. I should tell your father you don’t need a bodyguard. You need to be locked in a convent.”

  Now her eyes narrowed, and she released his arm as though it were filth she could not bear to touch any longer. “So now I am to be censured by you?”

  He frowned at her. “Why not me?”

  “Are you married?”

  The question took him off guard. Conversations with women generally had the effect of unsettling him. He could never predict where their maze-like minds might wander. Conversations with men began at point A and ended at point B. Women often meandered to C then R and back to L before coming to the point.

  “It is a simple question, Mr. Mostyn. Are you married?”

  He shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. Are you a virgin?”

  Ewan gaped at her. The question was so wildly inappropriate that, in his opinion, she had abandoned the points of the alphabet all together.

  She waved a hand. “Yes, I know I am not supposed to ask you that, but humor me. I am making a point. Just answer yes or no.”

  He shook his head, as he did not trust his voice at the moment.

  “Of course you are not. And yet no one thinks anything of the fact that you have bedded a woman who is not your wife. If I had to guess, with those eyes and those shoulders and chest”—she looked him up and down, and he actually felt himself heat at her frank perusal—“I imagine you have bedded more than your share of women.”

  Ewan’s head was spinning at the rapidity of her speech, but what he did understand was that she had just complimented him. She admired his body, and the thought of her eyes on him caused him to have to take a breath. His chest felt tight, and he lifted his hand to loosen the goddamn cravat before he remembered where he was.

  “Of course,” she went on, “it is seen as perfectly natural for a man to want to kiss a woman, touch her, undress her, take her to bed, and—”

  Ewan cleared his throat, not only because the already inappropriate conversation had descended beyond the pale, but because her description of the intimacies between men and women made him think of doing those things with her. And now the woman had not only fired his blood but stirred his rod. If she continued in this vein, his state of growing arousal would be evident to both of them.

  “My point,” she said—and thank God she was finally reaching it—“is that it is considered natural for men to want these things, but when a woman wants them, then we should be locked away.” She gestured wildly with her hand, losing hold of her wrap so it slid to the ground and trailed after her as she paced. “What is so wrong with wanting a man to kiss me?” She gave Ewan a direct look, challenging him to give her an answer.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but she did not wait. Which was for the best, as he did not know what he would have answered.

  “I love Francis Mostyn. Is it unnatural for me to want to express my love with a token of affection?”

  “Kisses lead to further improprieties,” Ewan said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to turn and see if his father stood behind him and had voiced them. It was exactly the sort of lecture the earl would have given to Ewan’s sister.

  “I am prepared for that,” Lady Lorraine argued, turning and pacing the other way. “I want to marry Mr. Mostyn. I will make whatever sacrifice is required.”

  “Washing and baking,” he said, recalling her speech earlier.

  She stopped pacing and glanced at him. “You heard that then? Yes. As I said, I could earn money by taking in washing or baking pies to sell.”

  The woman had no idea what she was talking about. “Have you ever laundered a garment?” Ewan asked.

  “I…” She scowled at him. “It cannot be too difficult to learn.”

  “It is hard work,” he said. He had never washed any of his own clothing until he’d entered the army, and while the work did not tax him physically, there was an art to it. “The soap roughens your hands and burns your skin, and the fabric grows heavy when wet so that scrubbing it requires some strength. Then it must be rinsed and wrung out and hung to dry.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I understand the process.”

  “Have you ever looked at a washer woman?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Ewan stared at her. He was a nobleman as much as she was a lady by birth. The nobility was not raised to look at the servants but rather to look through them.

  “I have looked at them,” she insisted.

  “What did her arms look like?”

  Lady Lorraine’s brow creased as though she were deep in thought.

  Ewan rarely interrupted, but she looked more chilled by the moment, and he wanted to finish the conversation and bring her inside. “Her arms were large and muscled and probably quite red and chafed. If you lasted in that work for a week, your delicate white arms would be ruined.” He looked at the patch of exposed skin between her gloves and her excuse for a sleeve.

  She looke
d down at it as well. And then she looked back up, her glittering eyes brimming with determination. “Then I will bake pies instead.”

  Ewan sighed. “Have you ever baked a pie?”

  She looked at him as though she wished lightning might strike him dead. “Listen, Mr. Mostyn, I do not see why my abilities are any of your concern. And don’t think I don’t know why you want to thwart any chance I have of eloping with Francis.”

  He’d never supposed she did not know why he wanted to stop her. Her father had hired him for that precise purpose. “Your father—”

  “No! That’s not why. It’s because you hate your cousin.”

  Ewan stared at her. How had she known that?

  “You tormented him as a boy, and now you see an opportunity to continue the abuse.”

  Ewan was frequently speechless, but he’d never been made so purely by shock. Was that the story Francis had told her? Perhaps that was what his bastard cousin had told everyone. It would have garnered him sympathy, and Francis thrived on sympathy. Ewan could hardly fault her for believing it of him before they had met, but how could she think that of him now?

  Ridiculous. Of course she would think such horrors of him. She didn’t know him at all. She didn’t even know the man she claimed to love. Ewan wanted to pity her, but he was far too angry.

  “I love Francis,” she was saying, “and I won’t allow—”

  “You don’t love him,” Ewan said with more vehemence than he’d intended. That little knot of fury he’d balled up unraveled slightly. She stepped back, clearly surprised as well. “You don’t know the first thing about my cousin or me or, for that matter, love.” He didn’t know why he’d added that last bit. He didn’t know anything about love either.

  “And you do?” she challenged, clearly not afraid of him.

  “I don’t claim to know about love,” he said honestly, “but I know my cousin, and he is not the innocent you think him to be. He is conning you, my lady—an easy task, as you can be taken in for a kiss.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He advanced on her, but she did not move away. She merely scowled at him.

  “You think my cousin loves you? He loves your dowry.”

  “How dare you!”

  “And if you were ever kissed by another man or two—kissed soundly and thoroughly—maybe you’d see that Francis Mostyn is not the paragon you seem to think.”

  He put his hands on her upper arms, and even through his gloves he could feel the coolness of her skin.

  “And who will kiss me? You?”

  He heard the note of hope in her voice. There was anger too, but he’d heard the hope. She wanted him to kiss her. Well, better him than the next man she encountered, who might be a rake or worse. He would give her what she seemed to want so desperately, and then she would see that there was a world of men beyond Francis Mostyn.

  And what lies he told himself. He wanted to kiss her and had been looking for the excuse.

  Ewan slid his hands to her back, gliding one down until he pressed the small of her back. He exerted a minimum of pressure to pull her closer and into his arms. She felt so small against him, and she trembled with cold. He wrapped his arm around her tiny waist, anchoring her to him, then lifted his other hand and brought it to her face. His palm caressed her cheek, then he pushed his fingers into her hair and allowed his thumb to trail along that cheek. How he wished he wasn’t wearing his gloves. He imagined her cheek felt like velvet and her hair like spun gold.

  And then he did not have to imagine any longer because he put his lips where his thumb had been and traced the path. As he’d thought, her skin was as soft as a flower petal and as delicate too. He hadn’t expected the scent of her to waft past his nose and snare him. She smelled of vanilla and sweet cream and something else uniquely her that made him hungry for far more than food.

  His lips skated to her ear so he could bury his nose in her hair. The scent was pink and light and womanly, a fragrance he now knew was hers alone. He pressed a kiss to her ear and felt her shiver, not from cold this time. “Enough kissing?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, her voice low and husky but ever so definitive. He almost laughed again. He had known that would not be enough for her. Nothing would be enough until he plundered her body and left her limp and exhausted with pleasure.

  His cock, hard now and at attention, approved heartily of that plan, but Ewan had grasped for his lauded control. At a young age, he’d learned to harness his strength and control it, and his desires were under those same taut reins. He would kiss her. Nothing more.

  He pulled back slightly to look in her eyes. It was too dark to discern the color, though he knew it well, but he wanted to see the look in them. As he’d expected, there was no fear, only wide-eyed curiosity and the barest hint of heavy lids, indicating the beginnings of arousal.

  Ewan traced a thumb over her lips, parting them slightly, and then pressed his mouth to hers.

  Seven

  Lorrie was in a state of acute shock. Her entire body quivered, and she knew it was no longer from the cold. The man holding her against him was as hot as a furnace. He was almost too hot, and she felt a single bead of perspiration trickling down her back. She did not know why she quivered except that she was giddy with anticipation. The Viking was kissing her. She hadn’t known she wanted him to kiss her until he’d pulled her against him, and then she did not know how she had ever wanted anything else.

  Even before his lips drove her to madness with their slow, tickling path to her ear, she knew this would be no chaste, perfunctory kiss like those Francis had given her. The Viking was not civilized. He would not kiss her like a gentleman, an assumption he proved when he growled in her ear. The heat that shot into her body at the warmth of his breath on that tender flesh had made her knees buckle. Her belly had soared and dipped and then coiled tightly as if waiting for something.

  And then he’d pulled back and looked at her with those icy blue eyes. Except they had not looked icy at all. They’d been the blue of a lake or of the sky on a perfect summer day. His large, rough thumb scraped over her lips, and the gesture itself felt so incredibly wanton that when he kissed her, it almost felt sweet.

  But that was just the initial press of his lips on hers. She’d been kissed like this before—lips upon lips, mouths locked in a fleeting embrace.

  Then his lips moved. He kissed one side of her mouth and then the other. Her head reeled and she felt dizzy until he took her bottom lip between his teeth and nipped. Lorrie opened her eyes—eyes she hadn’t even realized she’d closed—and gasped. What sort of man bit her? But she could not begin to object because he’d taken advantage of her open mouth to slant his mouth over hers.

  His open mouth.

  Lorrie stiffened, uncertain what she should do next. Keep her mouth open? Close it?

  That was when his tongue moved inside and slid across the roof of her mouth. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest and she tightened her hands on his coat both to hold herself upright—though his hand remained firmly on her back—and to keep him from stopping. She did not ever want him to stop. His tongue tangled with hers, and spikes of pleasure zinged through her body.

  This was indeed the most wanton thing she had ever done, and she never wanted it to end. The Viking—my God, she was kissing the Viking—plundered her mouth. There was no other word to describe what he did. He kissed her so deeply she could scarce remember to breathe. Her head felt fuzzy and too heavy for her shoulders, while at the same time she was aware of a growing ache between her legs. The more he slid in and out of her mouth, the more he toyed with her tongue, the more the ache grew and spread. She felt it in her belly and her breasts, which grew swollen and tender. Her nipples had hardened into points that chafed against her stays.

  She wanted to throw her head back and allow him to do what he would with her, as long as he never stopped kissi
ng her.

  And then suddenly there was that nip on her lower lip again, and sharp focus returned. He’d pulled back, and she opened her eyes and stared at him.

  “Enough?” he asked.

  She should say yes. It was more than enough. It was too much. Instead, she shook her head. “More.”

  He looked at her as one might look at a child who had eaten four biscuits and asked for yet another. Her lungs tightened with fear that he would cease kissing her. That he would end the magic that was this moment and she would be thrust back into reality. That she would never kiss him again after tonight. And that would be the greatest injustice of all.

  “Kiss me back,” he said in his usual gruff way.

  Joy surged through her. He would not deny her! And yet she had no idea how to comply with his demand. “I don’t know how to kiss like this,” she confessed. “I’ve never—”

  He silenced her by tracing his tongue along her upper lip, an action that made her catch her breath. Then he pulled back and raised one brow in what seemed to be a challenge.

  “Oh, you want me to do what you do,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, not that she’d expected one, and she rose on tiptoe to run her tongue along his upper lip. At the moment before she touched his mouth, she felt rather foolish. She had never licked anyone before, but as soon as their flesh met, she forgot all about foolishness. She learned the shape of his lip with her tongue—first his thin upper lip, then the fleshier lower lip. He was clean-shaven, but the first hints of stubble tickled her tongue. She closed her mouth over his lower lip, sucking on it gently and then biting it sharply as he’d done to her.

  Suddenly, she felt herself lifted off the ground, his hands digging into her buttocks and pulling her against his hard chest—but no, that was not his chest. That was—his mouth crashed down on hers and if she had thought she had been senseless before, she lost all capacity for thought now.