After the heat of the house itself, Lorrie was relieved to step into the cool night air before entering the Gothic conservatory. It had been constructed of cast iron and from the outside reminded her of an old church—all spires and soaring peaks. Inside one could not help but marvel at the walls of translucent colored glass, which threw a rainbow of color on the black and white marble floors.
The room was as long as it had been rumored to be. Lorrie had seen pictures of the structure, since it had been the site of a much-discussed fete five years before where over two thousand people had dined at a table with a stream of water running its length. The room was much grander than the cartoons made it seem, with more of the ornate gilded columns so prevalent throughout the house, and lovely gold and scarlet chandeliers hanging in the archways between the columns.
The throng of people gaping at all the golden splendor made navigation through the crowds nearly impossible. She’d been at the ball almost three-quarters of an hour, and she still hadn’t spotted Francis. She knew he would be here. He’d sent her a note several days ago asking her to meet with him at the ball. If only he’d been more specific about where he wanted to meet her.
To make matters worse, everywhere she turned, she met with the Viking’s cold gaze. They hadn’t had a chance to speak since the opera the night before, and though she’d been grateful for his assistance then, she wished he would find someone else to follow now. He was wearing another dratted cravat—this one as simple as the other but no less enticing—and she felt as though she were a lion tamer pulling a beast about on an invisible leash.
She had firmly refused to feel any sort of heat or tingles when she looked at him. Those were all reserved for Francis, whom she was determined to kiss tonight. Consequently, she had avoided looking too directly at the Viking. While that plan seemed to have worked quite well, she could not prevent him from looking at her. She could feel his gaze on her body, and her body took delight in vexing her with its response.
She did not know why he insisted on watching her so closely. Any number of ladies stopped to ogle him openly, their smiles beneath their fluttering fans full of invitation. He might have had his pick. She would have been flattered at his single-minded attention to her if she thought it was out of real interest and not simply a matter of duty.
Finally, she could bear the heat of the Viking’s gaze and the crush of bodies no more, and she stepped out of the conservatory, which had been situated on the manicured lawns of a park dotted with large trees. Hundreds of sconces lined the building and the adjacent lawn, leading out toward a path flanked by numerous topiaries some said the prince had commissioned for this ball in particular. She had not been outside long enough to lift her face to the cool breeze before a long shadow overtook her own.
Lorrie turned. “Mr. Mostyn, why am I not surprised to see you?”
The Viking leaned back against a spiky column and crossed his arms, apparently content to stand there as long as she did. She hadn’t anticipated the effect the sight of his powerful body cased in the glow of fire from the sconces would have on her resolutions. Her traitorous gaze could not cease its perusal of him, and her chest felt tight and itchy with something uncomfortable—something she could not quite define.
His face was in shadows, which only made the hard planes and rigid lines of it more foreboding. His light blue eyes appeared even more ethereal, like those of a wolf intent on its prey. Was she the prey? And if she were, did she mind?
Dressed in an ebony coat and a dark waistcoat threaded with silver, Ewan Mostyn looked very much the Norse version of the Byronic hero. She had a momentary flash of the grim look on his face when he’d carried her through the rain, and she remembered the heat of him when he’d held her. She shivered, telling herself it was from the cold night and not the desire to step into Ewan Mostyn’s arms again.
This lie required she ignore the fact that she was perspiring slightly, dampness having formed at her temples the longer she looked at him.
“I know my father asked you to keep me safe, but you needn’t follow me every single moment.” She sounded like a shrew, even to her ears. “I might point out that my very own mother, my most devoted chaperone, does not keep me this close at hand.”
“She should.”
Lorrie would have argued if she didn’t agree. Her mother had always been a lazy chaperone, which was how Lorrie had met Francis in the first place. The Duchess of Ridlington was too interested in her own affairs to pay much attention to those of her daughter. As that fact would not serve her purpose at all, she chose to ignore it.
“As you can see, I am perfectly well and safe here. I want a breath of fresh air before the dancing begins.” What she did not add was that she could not seem to catch her breath when he was near. Oh, where was Francis? Lorrie wanted to see him, to remember that it was he she loved and only him she wanted.
“It has begun.”
Lorrie furrowed her brow, confused until she realized he meant the dancing had begun. Had she really been searching for Francis that long? She cocked her head toward the conservatory and heard the strains of the violin and the lower notes of the cello floating over the hum of people speaking. The Viking was correct. Lorrie had promised the first dance to the son of a duke, and now she would have to apologize for missing it. She wouldn’t have cared who she offended if her search had resulted in finding Francis, but now she had missed the dance and failed to find her—what was he? A lover?
Not really. He’d only kissed her two or three times and those were mere pecks.
Her intended husband? Well, that was what she intended. One look at the Viking reminded her that her father had other ideas.
Lorrie decided to change tactics. “I never had a chance to thank you for your help last night. I doubt those men even noticed me. They smelled as if they’d drunk half the gin in Seven Dials.”
It might have been a trick of the flickering firelight behind him, but she thought his mouth curved upward slightly. “I don’t require your thanks.”
“I’m certain you don’t, but that won’t stop me from offering it. I did need your assistance last night. There’s no danger at the prince’s ball.” She made a shooing gesture. “You needn’t stay at my side.”
The Viking did not move, and finally—hallelujah—the prickly uncomfortable feeling she felt when she looked at him was replaced by a prickly feeling with which she was more familiar and labeled annoyance.
Lorrie pursed her lips. “If I walk back inside, you will follow me, won’t you?”
He nodded.
“Why? Is it because my father is paying you? I won’t tell him if you enjoy yourself away from me.”
It hardly seemed possible, but the Viking’s face turned even stonier.
“Have I said something wrong?” Lorrie asked. “Was it that I mentioned money? I know that’s horribly gauche.”
“I gave my word,” the Viking said.
Lorrie frowned, trying to understand the reference. “Oh. You mean, you follow me not because of the money but because you gave your word.”