“Lorraine, move closer to me,” her mother ordered, but it was too late.
The men behind her exchanged punches and stumbled drunkenly into the street. Unfortunately, Lorrie had been swept along with them. She tripped over her skirts and fell backward into an ice-cold, muddy puddle. The shock of the cold water snatched the last bit of sleepy warmth from her mind, and she struggled to rise. Unfortunately, her skirts had tangled about her ankles and the rain was falling hard enough to obscure her vision. Her gloves made untangling the wet material of dress and cloak all the more difficult. A moment later, she let out a small scream when the men who had fallen to the ground beside her all but rolled over her, their fists flying and jabbing. With a renewed sense of urgency she ripped at the sodden fabric clinging to her legs and gained her feet. But the men—impervious to her struggles or even her presence, it seemed—rolled over like boulders and knocked her off balance again. Like a set of pins in a game of skittles, she toppled over, but this time she didn’t tumble into the puddle. The arms that caught her felt as hard and unyielding as the ground, but they swept her up not down.
Lorrie blinked the water out of her eyes and looked into the Viking’s face as he lifted her away from the two fighting men. His jaw was as tight as a drum, his blue eyes filled with ice. His touch was gentle, though. He carried her as one might carry a young child, and she felt as though she weighed little more than a child. As his heat seeped into her chilled body, she had the strangest urge to close her eyes and lay her head on his chest. Initially, she hadn’t been frightened by the dueling men. She’d been annoyed that she’d been inadvertently involved. But the second time their antics felled her, panic had crept in. A carriage might run her over or one of the men might accidentally punch her or kick her in the head with a flailing foot. Both were so inebriated they didn’t even seem aware of her.
But now, in the Viking’s arms, all panic and fear subsided. His warm body held hers gently, shielding her from the worst of the rain and the prying eyes of spectators. She could hear them exclaiming about the duke’s daughter, and though she probably should have made it known she was uninjured, she did not want everyone gaping at the state of her dress and the mess that she knew was her hair and her face.
Nor did she wish to pull her nose from the sweet smell of pine and spruce that seemed to cling to the Viking. If she could block out the noise of the city, she could almost imagine she were in the peaceful countryside, under the stars.
And then a carriage door opened, and she was placed gently inside. “What the hell happened?” her father demanded, taking her by the arms. Lorrie squinted at the light from the carriage lamp.
Her brother was beside the duchess and her father sat across from them, his face white with concern.
“I told you,” her mother said. “Two idiots began a brawl and Lorraine was caught in the middle. Thank God Mostyn was there.”
“He should have been at her side all along, and this never would have happened,” the duke answered, then banged his cane on the roof of the carriage. Then he withdrew his greatcoat and dropped it over Lorrie’s shivering form.
At the signal for the coachman to depart, Lorrie pulled away from her father and looked about the barouche. “Where is Mr. Mostyn?” He was not inside with the rest of the party, and she couldn’t describe why, but she felt his loss keenly.
“How should I know?” her father answered. “He shoved you inside, slammed the door, and disappeared.”
“I know,” Neville said, pointing through the slit he’d made in the curtains. “He just hauled both of those men up off the ground and knocked them senseless.”
“Oh Lord!” her mother cried. “The man is a barbarian.” She turned to her husband, pointing. “What sort of man have you employed?”
But the Duke of Ridlington’s expression conveyed anything but apology. “Exactly the sort we need.”
*
Charles Caldwell, the Duke of Ridlington, stood at the door joining his chamber to his wife’s and stared. He’d stood here many nights over the years before retreating to his large, empty bed. He could not remember when or why the rift between Susan and him had begun, only that it had grown larger and larger over the years.
But these last few months, watching his daughter fall in love with the wrong man had brought memories of his youth and instant infatuation with Lady Susan. At the time, it had seemed the perfect match, but lately he had begun to wonder if he’d made a mistake. Perhaps his father should have prevented him from marrying Susan, as he sought to prevent Lorrie from marrying Francis Mostyn.
Or perhaps it was not he who had made a mistake, but Susan. Charles hadn’t tried to make amends when they first began to drift apart, when their conversations had become shorter and curter, when she’d sent him from her room with complaints of a megrim.
Perhaps if he hadn’t sought solace in another woman’s arms, she would not have sought out her own lovers. But his pride had been hurt, first by her rejection and then by her adultery.
He should have put his foot down at her first infidelity. Instead, he’d allowed his anger and jealousy to burn until he could barely look at her. He’d been too full of pride to let her know she’d hurt him. Too aware of his own failings as a husband to blame her.
Perhaps if he’d done any or all of these things, he would not be standing on the other side of her door alone, as usual.
They had been wed more than a quarter of a century, and though he had not loved her on the day of the wedding, he’d fallen in love with her before the end of their honeymoon. He had thought she had come to love him too. Those early years had been full of nights spent dancing until dawn followed by long, lazy days tangled naked in bed. Then came the birth of their children, three perfect little babies they had both loved more than they’d ever expected.
But something had happened as the children grew into youths. Susan had been tired and distant. He had been preoccupied. There were fewer nights of dancing until dawn and no more days romping in bed. One night he woke in his mistress’s bed and wondered what the hell he was doing.
He didn’t love his mistress. He didn’t even like her. She couldn’t replace Susan. None of his paramours could, and that night he had decided it was past time he tried filling the hole she had left in his heart and made an effort to win Susan back.
Thus, the last few months standing before their adjoining door.
What a coward he was. What a bloody coward.