Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  Her ears rang with the sound of blood rushing to her thudding heart, she did not know if her eyes were open or closed. All she knew was his mouth on hers, his body pressed to hers. All she knew was that in that instant, she was his completely.

  And then she was not.

  He set her down roughly, and she stumbled, hands stretched out, fingers groping wildly until she caught the back of a bench.

  “Bloody fucking hell.”

  It was the Viking’s voice, but she didn’t know where he was. She couldn’t seem to reach him. She needed to touch him again, to kiss him again. She felt bereft without his hands on her. She looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Mostyn.”

  His hand was rough on her arm. “Sit.” He guided her to the bench’s seat and pushed her down. The iron bench felt cold under her thin silk dress, especially when compared to the tropical splendor that had been the Viking’s body. Lorrie closed her eyes and the world ceased spinning for a moment.

  Finally, she opened her eyes again and looked up. The Viking stood beside the bench, his gaze on Carlton House, just visible beyond the topiaries.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  He gazed down at her, then back at the house.

  “I mean, I know you kissed me, but I don’t understand. I didn’t know kisses could be like that.” Since he didn’t respond, she filled the silence. “It did not even feel like a kiss. It felt…”

  He glanced down at her again.

  “More intimate.” She met his gaze.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Why?”

  His look darkened, and she waved the storm clouds away. “I know why you want to return, but what I mean is, why did you kiss me?”

  “A mistake,” he said. “Come.” This time he pulled her to her feet, moving back to make certain their bodies did not come into contact.

  “No, I won’t go until you answer my question. It may have been a mistake, but why did you do it? Was it really just to prove Francis’s kisses are much like pressing one’s lips to a trout, because you proved that well enough.”

  The Viking’s lips twitched, possibly with humor.

  “You could have proven that with half as much effort.”

  “Later,” he said and nodded toward the conservatory.

  “Oh, no.” She took a step away from him. “If I can’t persuade you to discuss the matter now, I certainly won’t be able to coax anything from you later. Why do you have such an aversion to speaking?”

  “Why do you have such an aversion to silence?”

  She smiled because she had forced him to speak. “Because I want answers, and if I don’t ask, no one tells me. Half the time they don’t tell me anyway.”

  “Once again you will be disappointed.”

  “No, I won’t. I’m not returning to the ball until you answer me.” Which would hopefully be soon as she was beginning to shiver again.

  He folded his arms across his chest—a chest, which she now knew, was quite hard and every bit as muscled as it appeared. But the gesture she took as an indication he thought her threat little more than a bluff.

  “I mean it,” she said. “You cannot make me go in.”

  “Really.”

  Lorrie moved back again, prepared to put the bench between them. “What would you do? Fling me over your shoulder and carry me in like I was a square of carpet?”

  He nodded sagely as though he rather liked that idea.

  She scooted behind the bench. “Wouldn’t it be easier and less likely to cause scandal if you just answered my question?”

  He sighed. “Why I kissed you.”

  “Yes. Why you kissed me so…so intimately.”

  “I wanted you.” He held out his hand. “Now, let’s go.”

  Lorrie stared at him, her fingers gripping the back of the bench so she would not fall backward. “You wanted me? What does that mean? You wanted to kiss me?”

  “Yes.” His brows lowered as he moved toward the bench. Lorrie scooted further away.

  “And when you were kissing me, you wanted to keep kissing me because…because you liked kissing me.”

  He didn’t give her any indication she was correct, but he didn’t deny her words either.

  “I liked kissing you as well,” she admitted.

  “I know.”

  Arrogant man. She would ignore that remark. “I wanted to do more than kiss you.”

  “No.” He nodded his head in the direction of the ball. “Inside.”

  “That is what you meant, isn’t it? You desired me. You wanted me in your bed.” Her cheeks burst into flame. She did not have to see her reflection to know her face must have been as red as a beet. She was glad of the darkness in the garden.

  “I answered your questions. Don’t make me chase you.”

  But Lorrie was hardly listening. The Viking had wanted to bed her. Surely there had been other men who had considered her in this light. She had two older brothers, so she knew something of the minds of men. But the Viking was the first man who had ever acted on the desire. And if she was not mistaken, his feelings had not been entirely welcome. She remembered all had seemed somewhat…if not proper then contained until she had bitten his lip. That was when his control had seemed to break. She wondered what would happen if she did it again.

  Unfortunately, her musings doomed her because the Viking took advantage of her distraction to move quickly. He rounded the bench, caught hold of her about the waist, and tucked her under his arm as though she were a parcel.

  “Put me down!” she gasped. She punched his stomach, but that only had the effect of making her own hand hurt. “I will walk on my own.”

  “Too late.”

  Good grief but this was mortifying. If anyone should happen to see her, she would probably die of humiliation.

  Finally, they reached the lighted area outside the conservatory, and he set her down. She swatted at him, then made a point of straightening her dress and her hair. “Oh drat. I must have dropped my wrap.” She started back for the topiary, but the Viking caught her arm. “I will send a servant to fetch it. You go inside.”

  “Stop ordering me about.” But she didn’t argue further because his suggestion was actually quite sensible, and now that she could hear the music from the ball again, she remembered she really should have been dancing.

  “Lorraine.”

  She spun around to find her mother standing on the terrace. Lorrie had no idea how much the duchess had seen, whether she had just emerged or if she’d watched the Viking carry her back to the house.

  “Coming, Mama. I needed a bit of air.”

  The duchess’s gaze roved over the Viking and then she scanned Lorrie from head to foot. Lorrie had no idea how she looked. She hoped she did not appear as thoroughly debauched as she felt. “I am sure you did, but you are wanted in the ballroom. Hurry along now.”

  Lorrie lifted her skirts, climbed the terrace steps, and followed her mother into the house. If she had the urge to look back at the topiaries where she’d had her first real kiss or the man who had given it to her, she behaved like the duke’s daughter she was and kept her eyes forward.

  * * *

  The woman was as annoying as the snipers Napoleon had employed during the war. The men had always seemed to appear out of nowhere, on top of some building Draven’s men needed to access, at the worst possible time. Nash could usually pick them off, but the most stubborn of them had to be left to Ewan, who would have to go around the building, sneak up to the roof, and dispose of the men without having his own head shot off.

  Lady Lorraine was only slightly less aggravating and that was only because he did not have to go to the trouble of breaking her neck or throwing her off a building, although there had been several instances in their brief acquaintance when he had considered doing one or both.

  Now he merely want
ed to break the neck of the man she danced with. He was a thin fellow. Ewan estimated the boy probably weighed as much as Ewan’s left arm. If the lad needed to shave more than once a fortnight, Ewan would have been surprised. But he had the dark, brooding looks Byron had made so popular. This son of a viscount or pasha or whatever the hell he was had long, dark hair that curled about his face, sad eyes that reminded Ewan of a pug his mother had once owned, and stark cheekbones that were in want of a good meal.

  As the pug-eyed boy twirled Lady Lorraine about, making her laugh and sending her looks of puppy-like adoration, Ewan imagined wrapping his hand—it would only take one—around the lad’s neck and snapping it in two.

  “You wore that same look on your face when we were trapped in that tavern in Strasbourg,” said a voice at his right arm. Ewan glanced over and was not at all surprised to find Rafe Beaumont standing beside him. Beaumont was a model of style and elegance, and Prinny had come to value Rafe’s opinion on matters of fashion after the famous falling out between the prince and Brummell.

  “You remember my expression?” Ewan said without any formal greeting, for none was needed between the two men who were far closer in some ways than even brothers.

  “Perfectly.”

  “I remember you had your head up a trollop’s skirt.”

  Beaumont grinned. “I remember her too. My persuasive tactics succeeded in convincing her to show us the cellar where her father hid his best wines and tobaccos. If we hadn’t hidden there, we would never have taken the soldiers by surprise after they stormed the building.”

  Ewan did not point out that all the hiding spot had done was given them a slight advantage before the attack. He had still fought his way out with a ferocity that would have made a berserker proud.

  “Is that your charge?” Beaumont asked, nodding to Lady Lorraine, still firmly entrenched in the pug’s arms.

  Ewan folded his arms over his chest and gave a quick nod of assent.

  “She’s pretty, although she smiles rather too much.”

  Ewan had noticed how often she smiled at the man she danced with as well. He had supposed it was out of sympathy for the ugly lad’s attempts to amuse her. But just because she smiled too much for Ewan’s liking did not mean Beaumont should comment upon it.

  Rafe held up a hand in defense. “Pray don’t look at me like that. I’d like to keep all my limbs in working order, if you don’t mind.” His gaze narrowed. “Is it because I remarked that she smiles too much? It was not a criticism, Ewan. I was merely surprised because daughters of dukes are usually so proper and haughty. She does not strike me as fitting that description.”

  Ewan’s thoughts flashed back to the garden and the way she’d nipped his lip. Proper and haughty did not begin to describe Lady Lorraine. No proper lady would have nipped him so. And no gentleman would have reacted as he had, giving in to the sudden rush of desire that had him moments away from claiming her virtue. Ewan couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so out of control with need for a woman. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever felt that way before.

  Control. Restraint. Those were the words of the day.

  “But I forget how loyal you are,” Beaumont drawled. “It is one of your best qualities, and since I have benefitted from it more than once, I am ever appreciative of it. Therefore, what I should say is that Lady Lorraine is all things perfect and wonderful and lovely.”

  Ewan clenched his fists.

  “Now what have I said?” Rafe demanded, and this time he did take a step back to what Ewan assumed he considered a safe distance.

  It wasn’t. Ewan could have reached his throat easily.

  “You cannot imagine I have designs on her,” Rafe said. “Hell’s teeth, man, I have enough trouble with the fairer sex. I needn’t add to my miseries with the daughter of the Duke of Ridlington. Francis Mostyn, little bastard that he is, is the man you want to throttle.”

  “I caught them in the park.”

  Rafe’s eyes bulged. “What? That arse had lured her into the park? For what purpose?”

  “I am not certain it was Francis who lured the lady.”

  “I don’t follow… Oh, I see what you mean. Well then, you have your work cut out for you, don’t you? Neil did say the lady was trouble. Since she is your trouble, you will have to be on your guard. Fortunately, you excel at such tasks.”

  Ewan made a noncommittal sound. The reel or jig or whatever the hell it was she’d danced had ended and now she was on the arm of another man. This was one was a bit older and hadn’t yet looked away from her bosom.

  “You may breathe easier now, my friend,” Rafe said, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Your cousin has departed. I saw him waiting for his carriage just as mine arrived.”

  That news did allow Ewan to relax slightly. At least he would not have to worry his charge would arrange any further clandestine meetings with Francis, and as she thought herself in love with him, she would probably resist the overly enthusiastic attentions of every other gentleman as well.

  Still, he intended to keep her in his sights the rest of the evening. Until she was behind the locked doors of her father’s house, he would not take his gaze off of her. Even then he could not relax. He still did not know if she had used the door or climbed down the tree when she’d tried to elope. Ewan didn’t think any plans to elope had been made tonight. The conversation he’d heard seemed to indicate otherwise, but that did not mean plans would not be made in the future. Lady Lorraine seemed to possess a talent for having her way, and if he hadn’t been able to resist her, he doubted his idiot cousin would.

  “All of this talking has parched my throat,” Beaumont said, backing away. “I’d better find refreshment.”

  Footmen circled the room with silver trays of champagne, but before Ewan could snatch one for his friend, he noticed the voluptuous woman making her way toward them. She moved like a lioness stalking her prey, and Rafe—the prey—would not wait to be caught. “I’ll see you at the club,” he said and dove into the crush of guests. Ewan, being one of the taller men in the room, could see him move expertly through the throngs, but Rafe would be quite obscured from the lioness’s vision.

  Ewan glanced back at the dancing, observing his charge with arms folded across his chest. Once or twice in the course of the night, the forms dictated that she stand near his side of the room, and she always glared at him.

  Finally, at about two in the morning, supper was announced. Ewan neatly stepped in front of the man who’d been about to escort her into supper, and took her arm himself.

  “Well, that was rude,” she remarked, giving her former dance partner an apologetic smile over her shoulder. “He is supposed to escort me to supper after the dance.”

  “No,” Ewan said.

  “Yes, he is. And I know you know this because you are the son of an earl, but for some reason you are acting more like a cross gargoyle. How am I or any of the other guests supposed to dance with any gaiety while you glower at us from your corner?”

  So that was the reason she’d glared at him whenever she’d danced by. He liked the way she talked, liked listening to her voice, even when it was filled with rebuke. He deposited her in a chair beside her mother and then went to fill a plate for her.

  “Mr. Mostyn!” she hissed as he walked away.

  Undoubtedly she was not pleased to be seated beside her mother and the other matrons at her mother’s table. She would have preferred to flirt at a table filled with men or to gossip with some of the other young ladies. Ewan wanted her out of the way of any such trouble.

  He joined the line of other men filling plates for their ladies. Lady Lorraine was correct that he had not behaved properly in taking her away from her last dance partner. A gentleman asked for the supper dance in order to be the one who escorted the lady to dinner and then claimed her attentions for the duration. Since Ewan had whisked her away, he would
have to fill a plate for her. He didn’t know what she liked, so he filled the plate with a bit of everything. One plate was not quite large enough for all the bounty the regent had bestowed upon his guests, so he filled two.

  A pity he was working tonight because he would have liked to taste some of the fare, but he did not eat while he was on duty.

  He brought the plates back to Lady Lorraine and sat them in front of her. The lady gaped at him. “Surely, you do not expect me to eat all of this!” She gestured to the food piled so high it all but reached her chin.

  “I didn’t know what you liked,” he said.

  “How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Mostyn,” the duchess remarked. “And since your father has taken up residence in the card room, I will share your bounty, Lorrie.”

  “The card room?” said a voice Ewan recognized as the duke’s. “I merely stopped in to say hello.” The duke pulled a chair beside his duchess, who stared at him openmouthed.

  “I would not leave my duchess to dine alone.” He took her hand and kissed it. The duchess snatched it back, but the duke seemed unperturbed. He sat beside her and eyed Lady Lorraine’s plate.

  “Here you are.” Lady Lorraine pushed a plate toward her parents.

  His task complete, and both parents present to chaperone her, Ewan shoved a chair up against the wall near Lady Lorraine and sat, watching her. Two or three times she turned round and looked at him. She even looked as though she might speak—though she always looked like she might speak—but then she was pulled back into the conversation at her mother’s table. Ewan did note that she hardly ate anything, though she did drink two glasses of champagne.

  And then the dancing commenced again and her next partner came to claim her, and Ewan followed them back into the ballroom.

  He returned to his corner and resumed what she had referred to as his cross gargoyle stance while she did some complicated turns with a young man who, from his tanned complexion, looked to have just returned from the Indies.

  “While His Grace generally shows quite a bit of sense and sound judgment,” a woman remarked beside him, “I will admit to doubting the wisdom of hiring you to protect our daughter.”