“That’s because most of them aren’t in English,” Beaumont answered.
Ewan hadn’t known that, and he felt his neck grow warm. He’d thought opera was one more area in which he was a dimwit. And now, of course, he’d proven he was a numbskull because he hadn’t even known the singers didn’t sing in English. He should remember to keep his mouth shut. But neither Wraxall nor Beaumont made a disparaging comment. These two knew his shortcomings, but they never made light of them.
“In any case,” Wraxall said to break Ewan’s embarrassed silence, “you won’t be watching the opera. Your mission is to be on your guard, keeping an eye on the duke’s daughter at all times. This is a good assignment for you, Mostyn,” Wraxall declared. “You’ve been bashing heads at Langley’s too long.”
“I like bashing heads.”
“Maybe you will have the chance to bash your cousin’s,” Beaumont pointed out.
Ewan could only hope.
Four
What exactly had he meant? You are mine. Lorrie hadn’t been able to keep the phrase out of her mind the entire day. Had the Viking meant she was his responsibility? She certainly didn’t belong to him. She wasn’t his wife—thank God—or his sister or any other relation. And then Lorrie started to wonder if the Viking had a wife. Was he married? Did he have children?
If it hadn’t rained all day, she might have taken Welly out and turned her mind to other concerns. Instead, she’d been stuck inside with nothing but her needlework and her mother’s gossip, which Lorrie had heard last week, to keep her occupied.
She’d almost jumped for joy when her mother had sent her to change for the opera. Lorrie didn’t care for the opera, especially as Francis never attended, but at this point she was desperate for any diversion.
While Nell pulled and twisted Lorrie’s hair into the latest French style, Lorrie stared at her reflection in the mirror. Francis had said she was beautiful. Lorrie had been flattered, though she’d known it was hyperbole. She was not beautiful. She had pleasing features but nothing that would cause anyone to stop and stare in a crowded room.
Now, Francis was quite handsome. Ladies routinely turned their heads when he passed. Francis was a skilled dancer and a witty conversationalist as well. The Viking, on the other hand, Lorrie imagined ladies turned their heads when he passed, but it was probably out of awe and not admiration. She didn’t know if the man danced, but his cousin had him beat hands down when it came to conversation.
Still, her new bodyguard managed to say quite a lot without ever having to utter a word. Lorrie stared at her brows in the mirror and attempted to raise only one. Both rose, so she held one in place and raised the other. Now she simply looked ridiculous.
“My lady?” Nell asked.
Lorrie dropped her hands. “How is your sister, Nell?” she asked quickly.
Nell smiled. “It won’t be long now. The baby should be here before the end of summer. My sister and her husband are hoping for a boy, but I would love a little niece to spoil.”
“So would I, but neither of my brothers seem very intent on marrying.”
Nell made a sound of assent. “They are still young. Lord Neville arrived just before I came up, my lady, and Mr. Mostyn was right behind him.”
Lorrie had a thousand questions at that moment—how had the Viking looked, had he spoken, did Nell know if he was married…
Instead, she said, “Good. Then we shan’t have to wait on either of them.”
“All the maids are quite aflutter with talk of Mr. Mostyn,” Nell said, pulling a curl out of the coiffure so it framed Lorrie’s face.
For some reason the maids’ infatuation with her new bodyguard irritated Lorrie. “Really? The man has as much charm as a mule.”
“But he’s a great deal more attractive, my lady.” The maid secured a small diamond pin in Lorrie’s hair, which glinted softly off the candlelight.
“Don’t tell me you are smitten with him too.”
Nell shook her head. “I think I would die of fright if the man spoke to me. He will make a good bodyguard, my lady.”
That was what she’d been afraid of. With the Viking watching her every movement, she and Francis would never have any time alone, and she’d been hoping to sneak away and steal a kiss at Prinny’s ball tomorrow night.
Lorrie rose. “I suppose I should go down.” She pulled on her gloves and fastened a silver cuff on one wrist. She studied her reflection in the cheval mirror and supposed she would do. The gold silk dress had a modest neckline, but it was rounded enough to show her shoulders. Nell was a wonder with hair, and she’d artfully arranged Lorrie’s hair into a cascade off to one side. A long, solitary curl tickled her exposed skin. The fact that Nell was able to cajole Lorrie’s hair into curling at all made her invaluable. Lorrie’s stick-straight hair proved rather recalcitrant when anyone other than Nell took curling tongs to it.
On the way down the stairs, she bit her lips to give them color, then smiled when she spotted Neville at the bottom of the steps. He stood tall and straight, his light brown hair waving back from his forehead.
“There you are,” he said, barely glancing at her. “Maybe you can tell me why there’s a man I do not know accompanying us to the opera. Father sequestered himself with the man, and Mama shushed me.”
Lorrie sighed. “Father has hired him to keep us safe.”
Neville’s brows rose high on his already high forehead. “Us safe? You mean you safe from that arse Francis Mostyn.”
Lorrie’s smile died. She remembered why she had been happy when Neville had left for school and then found his own accommodations in London. She’d never liked Neville much. Charles, her eldest brother, was far less annoying, but he was quite involved in politics and rarely at home.
“As Francis will soon be my betrothed, I would appreciate it if you did not disparage him.”
“Father will never agree to you marrying that arse.”
If they’d been a few years younger, she would have punched him. Although he was three years her senior, as children she could always best him. She’d make him call “surrender,” and if he wouldn’t, she’d hold him down until he cried. Now she was not so certain she could hold him down. He was taller than her and at least three stones heavier. She might still be able to make him cry if she punched him in the belly.
“Mr. Mostyn is not an arse, and Father will agree to allow me to marry him.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“When he realizes Francis is the only man who will ever make me happy.”
“Until you find another man who will”—he raised his voice to mock her and fluttered his hands—“make you happy.”
Lorrie folded her arms. “There is no other man. There is no man better than Francis.”
“My hound is better.” Neville glanced at the closed library door again. “That man is your bodyguard, you say? He looks familiar.”
“He is Francis Mostyn’s cousin.”