Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  And then he’d heard a low chuckling and turned to see Francis standing behind a tree, a croquet mallet in his hand. And Ewan knew. Francis had done this.

  Without thinking, he’d attacked, easily wrestling Francis to the ground and taking the mallet from his hands. Ewan had then begun to pound Francis, just as his cousin had pounded his little figures into wood pulp.

  It wasn’t long before Ewan’s older brothers pulled him off and one of the groundskeepers intervened and all the boys were dragged before the Earl of Pembroke, who stared down at them with undisguised disgust. “What is the meaning of this?” he’d boomed, his gaze coming to rest on Ewan.

  Ewan wanted to answer, but the words lodged in his throat.

  “He attacked me, Uncle,” Francis said. “I had done nothing! I swear.”

  The earl looked at his heir, and William had nodded agreement. “It’s true, my lord. The attack did seem unprovoked.”

  “It was n-n-not!” Ewan had bellowed, unable to hold his tongue. He’d held out the remains of his little men, now little more than bits of wood covered with dirt and grass. “L-l-l-ook what he did.” He pointed to Francis. “He d-d-destroyed my soldiers!”

  “Did not!” Francis said. “I was with William and Michael after lunch!”

  The earl looked at his sons. “Is that true?”

  William looked at Francis, then down again. “Yes, sir. But he was not with us the entire time.”

  The earl looked at Francis. “So there was opportunity. Very well, Francis; did you destroy Ewan’s soldiers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He lies!”

  “None of that!” the earl said to Ewan. “He says he did not destroy them. Do you have proof that he did?”

  Ewan had stared at his father, then his brothers. Everyone knew Francis did it. Why would no one take his side? “N-n-n—”

  “Say it already!” his father demanded.

  Ewan closed his eyes. “He was laughing and he had the croquet mallet—”

  “Then it’s your word against his, and I’ll have you know, Ewan, we don’t accuse men of crimes without some sort of proof. That’s slander.”

  “He did it.” Ewan had felt his lip tremble and known he was very close to tears. “I know he d-d-d—”

  “That’s enough,” the earl had said. “Go to your room and dry your tears. Don’t come out until you can behave more like a man. You’re too old to play with toys anyway.”

  Ewan had stared, dumbfounded. He was being punished? His creations had been destroyed, and yet he was the one whose liberty was being taken away?

  He’d turned on his heel and marched to the door, but when he’d stepped outside, he’d paused and looked back. Inside, the earl knelt, hand on his nephew’s shoulder, and spoke quietly to Francis. In the scene was all the warmth and fatherly affection Ewan had never known.

  But he knew one thing—his father did not love him like he loved Francis.

  Lady Lorraine stood and put her hand over his, bringing him back to the present. “I’m sorry.”

  He waited for her to offer excuses for his cousin’s behavior—he was jealous or boys will be boys—but she said nothing more. She squeezed his hand.

  Then she moved closer and put her arms around him, her warm body pressing against his in a gesture of comfort.

  “And you say there are ninety-eight more stories like this?” she murmured against his shoulder.

  He nodded.

  Her fingers fluttered over his back. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  She stood, holding him for a long time—or so it seemed to him. Finally, he brought his arms up and held her back. Strange that such a small thing should ease some of the bitterness the memory had churned in him, but then he’d had precious few embraces in his life and fewer still designed to give comfort.

  When she finally pulled away, he couldn’t quite allow her to go. She might have meant only to comfort him, but after several minutes of the feel of her in his arms, other thoughts had come to mind.

  She looked up at him, her breath hitching in her throat in a way that made her breasts rise deliciously over the lace at the bodice of her night rail.

  “Will you kiss me now?” she whispered.

  He swallowed because kissing her was the most innocent of actions he could imagine at the moment. He allowed his hand to slide up her back and then around to cup her face. He raised her chin until her eyes—such lovely green eyes—met his. All of her feelings—her desire, her eagerness, her uncertainty—were written plainly on her features. “You like when I kiss you,” he said.

  “You know I do.”

  “I like it too.” He looked down at her lips, and she closed her eyes.

  And then opened them again when he didn’t move to put his mouth on her.

  “We are in your father’s house and in his library. I won’t kiss you here. I won’t kiss you at all. That’s not why we’re here.”

  “It could be.”

  He gave her a long look. “What would Francis say?”

  She opened her mouth, but she didn’t speak. Confusion flickered in her eyes, and that spoke more than any words she might utter. She still cared for his cousin and yet she had her doubts about him as well. Her affection was torn, which had not been the reason he’d told her the story, but which served his purposes at any rate.

  “You are correct.” She stepped away, out of his grasp. “We should read the documents you brought. We still do not have a solution to your father’s predicament.”

  He nodded and went to the chair across the desk. She sat too, and he was certain she read, but he didn’t hear a word of it.

  Fourteen

  Ewan strolled through the Dewhursts’ ball, keeping a few feet behind Lady Lorraine. The fourth Baron Dewhurst was one of the most fashionable men in London, despite his American wife, and the ton had turned out to marvel at the ballroom, which had been draped with silks and covered with Turkey rugs in order to give the impression of an eastern sheik’s palace. The dance floor remained bare, of course, but surely even those brave enough to partake in the still relatively scandalous waltz could imagine they were in Arabia since the scent of flowers permeated. Ewan had no knowledge of what sorts of flowers adorned the pots and baskets hanging from the columns—he could identify roses and daisies—but he thought he recognized blue and white flowers that resembled pictures of lotus plants he’d seen in childhood books.

  Lady Lorraine was not allowed to dance the waltz, and she took the opportunity to step out of the warm ballroom and into the supper room, where she sampled Turkish coffee and several other eastern delicacies Ewan did not recognize, but which he sampled as well.

  Except for turnips, Ewan had never met a food he did not like, and these dishes were spicy and exotic. As a general rule, he did not eat when he was working, but one glance at Lady Lorraine showed her deep in conversation with another young woman, both ladies sipping their rich coffee.

  Ewan tasted a creamy yellow concoction, a spicy red sauce he ascertained he should dip the flat bread into, and finally a thick green stew-like dish where he was pleased to find potatoes hidden. The sweets were even more tempting. Dates and figs, milk and rice topped with nuts, and some sort of pastry filled with custard and dripping with sweet syrup.

  By the time Ewan had managed to clean his hands of the sugar, the waltz had ended. Lady Lorraine was no longer in the supper room. It annoyed him that she hadn’t fetched him before leaving, but he supposed she had returned to the ballroom for her next dance.

  He was wrong.

  He’d had her recite the names of her partners for the evening, and he’d memorized the list. It was the same group of men she always danced with—an assortment of heirs to marquessates, dukedoms, or great fortunes. Ewan found her partner in the ballroom, a man a little older than Ewan who would inherit an earldom.

  “Mr.
Mostyn,” Viscount Whatshisname—who was number four on the dance card—said as he bowed to Ewan. “Have you seen Lady Lorraine?”

  Ewan gritted his teeth. “I will find her.”

  “I thought I saw her enter the supper room. Shall I search there?”

  Ewan shrugged. The viscount could do what he liked, but Ewan had a feeling he knew exactly where the lady had gone.

  As he did for all balls they attended, Ewan required the duke’s secretary to provide a guest list the day of the event. The secretary grumbled about this additional task and the delicacy of requesting such information, but he managed it. Gladstone then recited the names of the guests—sometimes to Ewan alone and sometimes to both Ewan and the duke—before the ball.

  Francis Mostyn had been on the Dewhursts’ list.

  His cousin had waited until Ewan was distracted by the food in the supper room and then whisked Lady Lorraine away. Ewan couldn’t even be angry at Francis. It was Ewan’s own weakness he cursed.

  Turning away from the viscount without another word, Ewan ducked behind one of the silk drapes and peered out the long windows of the ballroom. The lawns were unlit and the night was cold enough that it felt more like late autumn than late spring. Ewan doubted Francis had led the duke’s daughter outside, and he hoped Lorraine was not foolish enough to assent to go outside if it was suggested.

  That meant she was inside the house, a large town house with dozens of rooms. Except Ewan had noted the footmen stationed about the house when he’d first come in. Clearly the Dewhursts wanted no scandals at their ball, no ladies being ruined in the library.

  Ewan made his way out of the ballroom, ignored the supper room, and passed the library. A footman stood guard there. “Did anyone enter?” he asked.

  “No, sir. This room is closed.”

  Ewan looked about the busy vestibule with men and women coming and going, shedding wraps while others pulled pelisses on to stave off the chill. “What is that door?” he asked, pointing to another beside the dining room. It probably connected to the dining room, but Ewan had been so focused on the food, he hadn’t noticed it.

  “A parlor, sir.”

  “Is it closed?”

  “No, sir. Lord Dewhurst asked that it remain open to accommodate any older guests who might need to rest later in the evening or linger over drinks after dinner.”

  Which meant it was probably empty at the moment. Ewan started for the door, then thought better of it. He cut through the supper room, steadfastly ignoring that sticky sweet dessert, and spotted the door to the parlor immediately. It was closed, and he put his hand on the latch and silently opened it.

  One look inside confirmed his suspicions. The room was empty but for a single couple standing near the mantel. The lady wore a bluish green gown with gold along the hem and ornamenting the sleeves. The color turned her eyes blue-green and the gold leaves in her dark hair made it look even richer. He knew the dress and the lady. Lorraine stood in the arms of his cousin. Francis had both hands planted on her back, and he kissed Lorraine quite passionately.

  For her part, the lady returned the affections.

  Pain speared through Ewan so fiercely he all but expected a knife to protrude from his lungs. Betrayal—he knew that feeling well—but mixed along with it was also another feeling, jealousy. He knew that one as well, had come to associate it with Francis Mostyn.

  Ewan had the impulse to stand in the doorway and roar. Was this how the lady repaid him for spilling out his heart the night before? Why not just rip it out and stomp on it? It might have hurt less.

  But he also had the strange impulse to close the door, not to intrude on this private moment. Of course, he’d been paid to intrude, paid to stop just this sort of behavior. If she’d been kissing another man—Viscount Whatshisname, for example—Ewan would have had an easier time looking the other way. After all, the Duke and Duchess of Ridlington wanted their daughter to consider the men on her dance card.

  Ewan wouldn’t have liked looking away. He would have wanted to rip her out of any man’s arms and then smash that man into little more than pink pulp.

  Ewan wanted to do the same to Francis. And he had license to knock Francis about a bit, and it would give him temporary satisfaction. But Ewan saw the way Lorraine’s fingers closed on Francis’s coat, the way her breath hitched, and her body melted into his. All her uncertainty about marrying Francis from the night before seemed to have fled.

  Had nothing they’d shared in Ridlington’s library mattered to her? Had nothing Ewan had said, the pain he’d allowed her to see, the embrace afterward—had none of that mattered? Ewan clenched his jaw and pushed the anger and the hurt down. He could not allow it to matter. His job was to prevent an elopement, whether the lady loved his cousin or did not, whether she eventually married him or did not, was no concern of his.

  He was the man her father paid to guard her. Nothing more.

  Ewan had never stood, undecided, for so long. He always acted quickly and boldly. Leave others to strategize and plan and second-guess. But he must have remained in the doorway long enough for Lorraine to sense him. She broke the kiss, and her gaze flicked directly to Ewan. In her eyes he saw a dozen emotions—embarrassment, surprise, shame, defiance—and something else that looked very much like regret.

  Francis was turned slightly, and he did not see Ewan. Ewan closed the door before his cousin could spot him. A moment later, the door opened again and Lorraine stepped into the supper room. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips red from the other man’s kiss. She wouldn’t quite meet Ewan’s eyes.

  “I should return to the ball,” she said, speaking rapidly. “I just needed a bit of air.” Ewan could only assume this statement was made for the benefit of the others in the room because she certainly hadn’t been breathing fresh air with her face pressed against Francis’s.

  “The viscount was looking for you,” Ewan said, his voice hard and cold.

  “Oh, Viscount Knoxwood. Of course!” That being all the excuse she needed, she escaped back into the ballroom. Ewan followed—he always followed—and stood in a corner, watching the dancers smile and flirt and exchange meaningful looks. Others frowned or hissed scathing retorts. Some looked shy with hope or wretched with disappointment. Men and women falling in love or out of it.

  The music played on. The dancers danced on. Ewan stood on the outside, watching.

  * * *

  Charles found his wife on the Dewhursts’ terrace, braving the unseasonably cool temperatures in only a thin emerald-green silk gown. He liked her in green. It complemented her eyes, which was his favorite feature of hers.

  One of them, at any rate.

  He wondered if she wore green so often because she knew he liked her in it or if that was more wishful thinking. Her hands rested lightly on the balustrade, and over the gloves, she wore the diamond-and-emerald ring he’d given her. He hadn’t even been certain she’d accept it, and every time he saw it on her finger, his heart clenched with hope.

  Let the ton gossip about her new lover. Charles knew the truth about the gift.

  He stepped behind her and slid his arms about her waist. She stiffened and would have elbowed him in the breadbox, but he leaned down and whispered in her ear. “I wondered where you had gone.”

  “Charles.” She relaxed, but not as much as he would have liked. When would she lower her guard with him? When would she believe he was sincere in his pursuit of her?

  “Shall I give you my coat? Your skin is like one of Gunther’s ices.”

  “I’m fine. I was overheated and needed the air.”

  He turned her to face him, noting her flushed cheeks. “Are you well? Shall I take you home? Mostyn can escort Lorrie.”

  She gave him a wry look. “Escort her to the library, you mean. I still don’t think we should allow them to continue to meet there.”

  He agreed. The two of them, al
one, in the dark of night was completely inappropriate. With any other man, he would have believed the worst, but he knew enough of Mostyn now to believe nothing untoward had happened or would happen between the two of them. Not under his roof, at any rate.

  And with Mostyn and his daughter so preoccupied with what he assumed was their own budding love affair, he had the time and privacy to pursue his own love.

  “Lorrie has not mentioned Francis Mostyn in a week or more. Pembroke’s son is a good distraction for her,” he said.

  “I suppose we can trust him—to a point.”

  “That is true of all men. Women too.”

  Through the terrace doors, the strains of violin and cello wafted out. Charles took Susan’s hand and guided her into a waltz. She laughed as he turned her, then pulled her close. She was warm, the weight of her breasts against his chest familiar and tantalizing all at once.

  “Stop,” she said between laughter. “Someone might see us.”

  “A man dancing with his wife,” he said, turning her again. He wanted her dizzy—as dizzy as he felt with love for her. “How unfashionable. Imagine the scandal if you were found with me rather than Worthington.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t know the origin of that rumor. As though I would allow that lecher to touch me.”

  He glided with her, feeling her body relax again. “I am glad to hear it. I do like this dance. Why did they not have the waltz when I courted you?”

  “We had our own share of risqué songs and dances.”

  She looked so beautiful in the golden light shining through the windows of the town house. She might have been the same girl he’d first asked to dance all those years before. “Do you remember the first time I asked you to dance?”