And that made her dangerous. Men might call him an idiot, but Ewan was no fool. He knew kissing Lady Lorraine was out of bounds. He was to keep her safe, nothing more. He needn’t touch her or even look at her more than absolutely necessary.
He’d already looked at her far more than he was obliged. The gold dress she’d worn tonight had flattered curves he hadn’t noticed before, and she had all that long, dark hair. He didn’t dare to look at her eyes except when she was gazing the other way. Her eyes were far too perceptive and their shade of green was one of the loveliest he’d seen. He remembered a field in the French countryside where he and others from Draven’s troop had camped one night when they’d gone ahead of the others. The spring morning had dawned golden, casting the green field in a muted light. That was the color of Lady Lorraine’s eyes—a verdant field dipped in palest gold.
Ewan could never have her. She was like a pastry in a display case. He could look but not touch. Boys who couldn’t read their primers weren’t given pastries, and men who were lackwit former soldiers did not aspire to possess a duke’s daughter.
But what he could do was ensure she remained out of his cousin’s reach as well. Because Ewan would rather go to hell and back before he ever allowed Francis to get his hands on her.
Five
The next morning, when Ewan arrived at his club, he found a summons from his father waiting for him. Porter handed it to him when he arrived, and Ewan walked into the vestibule to find his former commander staring up at the shield and sword.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Porter said, making a discreet exit.
Neil glanced over his shoulder as Ewan walked past the suit of armor and the broadswords hung on the wall to stand beside him. For a time, the two stared at the shield and those eighteen fleur-de-lis carved into the flanks and base. Peter had been the sixteenth man of the troop to die, and Ewan focused his gaze on that sixteenth mark, trying to remember the man and not his fiery death.
“It should have been me,” Neil said softly, so quietly Ewan had to strain to hear him. “I shouldn’t be standing here. Bryce or Guy or Peter—or, hell, any of them should be here rather than me.”
Ewan didn’t argue. They’d all felt that way at one time or another. Ewan had often wondered why he’d lived and others hadn’t, but Neil seemed tormented by his own survival. “I know what you’ll say,” Neil said, his gaze back on the shield and sword. “All of us feel that way, but for me it’s different. It should have been me. I’m a bastard. I was unwanted and have no legitimate place. I should have died.”
“No,” Ewan said simply. “You kept us all alive.”
It was true. If they’d lost Neil, they’d have lost their leader and their heart. Ewan doubted any of the men would have come back alive if Neil hadn’t.
“Besides, I had to keep you alive,” Ewan said, thinking to make light of the situation and thereby erase some of the shadows from Neil’s eyes. “We couldn’t have the only virgin in the group dying before he bedded a woman.”
As Ewan had wanted, Neil turned and scowled at him. “I’ve bedded women. I just haven’t performed one act.”
“It made for a good rally cry. Protect the virgin!”
Neil glared at him. “Say it again, and I’ll break your nose. It wasn’t amusing then, and it’s not now.”
Ewan had liked it better than the one that had replaced it, a phrase about dancing with the devil.
To Ewan’s relief, Neil moved toward the stairs. “Did you come to taunt me or did you have another reason?”
Ewan pulled the missive from his coat and thrust it into Neil’s hands. Still striding up the stairs, Neil took the missive and broke Pembroke’s seal. He scanned the contents. “Your father wants to see you immediately at his town house.”
“Why?” Ewan asked, pausing at the top of the stair, hands on his hips.
Neil looked back at the paper. “He doesn’t say.” They continued into the reading room. “This is dated yesterday, so I imagine he’s grown quite impatient.” Neil headed for a grouping of chairs and sat heavily. Ewan followed but didn’t have time to take his ease.
“You will simply have to tell him you were at the opera last night,” Rafe Beaumont said, reading the missive over Neil’s shoulder and then sliding into the chair beside Wraxall. “Quite the hero you were too—or so I heard. I want all the details.”
Ewan scowled. He was no hero. He’d pulled Lady Lorraine up off the street, where she wouldn’t have been in the first place if he’d been doing his duty.
“Will you go?” Neil asked.
Ewan grunted, the sound indecisive. He had no desire whatsoever to see his father. For the past two decades the man had behaved as though Ewan did not exist. Ewan saw no reason that should change now. On the other hand, the few times his father had acknowledged him were times the earl had needed Ewan’s assistance—when an overly enthusiastic suitor would not accept that Lady Henrietta did not return his affections and when one of the servants, upset at having been let go without references, went about destroying one of the parlors in a drunken rage.
Little as he cared for his father, he did feel some loyalty toward his family and his name. If the earl had called for him, the matter was most likely urgent.
“You might join Jasper in a game of billiards,” Rafe offered. “I’ve already lost five pounds to the man, but perhaps you’ll fare better. And then you can tell me about your feats of valor last night.”
Ewan held his hand out to Neil, who gave him the missive. “I have other business.”
“Want company? Want to tell me about last night?” Rafe asked.
“No.” Ewan turned and strode back out of the club. He hailed a hackney and directed the jarvey to take him to Pembroke House in Mayfair.
The house looked much as it had the last time Ewan had been here, several years before. Rectangular and white with a black wrought iron fence surrounding it and flowers in the boxes at the windowsills, the London home of the Earl of Pembroke looked warm and welcoming.
Ewan knew the truth.
He opened the gate, walked up the four steps to the door, and stared at the knocker. He did not want to do this. He did not want to go inside. Standing here, he felt every bit the miserable boy he had once been. And that boy had wakened every morning with a knot of loathing in his belly because he’d known he was a disappointment. His life had been one of looking in from the outside. He’d stood on the fringes while, knowingly or not, his parents had spent what little time they had for their children lavishing attention on his brothers and sister.