“By Jove,” the duke whispered. “She must be exhausted. She hasn’t fallen asleep in the carriage since she was about five. Bellweather,” he said to the butler. “Have a footman carry her—”
“I’ll do it,” Ewan interrupted. As far as he could see, there was no reason to rouse more of the staff when he was perfectly capable of carrying her to bed. She weighed next to nothing.
“Very well. Make certain Nell is waiting for her,” the duke instructed his butler.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Carefully, Ewan lifted the warm, limp form of Lady Lorraine and maneuvered her out of the carriage. He tried not to jostle her too much, and perhaps that was why he held her a bit too tightly.
In any case, she did not seem to mind. She curled against him, her face pressed to his dark waistcoat and her hair spilling over his arm.
In the flickering light of the vestibule, Ewan could see her more clearly now. The color had come back into her cheeks and her dark lashes lay against the roses and cream skin. Rafe had said she was pretty, and though Ewan did not have an extensive vocabulary, even he knew pretty did not begin to describe her. Beautiful might do, but even that seemed too trite.
He walked up the stairs with her and turned toward her bedchamber. There her maid opened the door and motioned him to lie her on the bed. Ewan did so, placing her down gently. But when he tried to remove his hands from under her, they did not seem to want to leave her soft, pliant form. In fact, he had the urge to pull her close again, to bend down and push the wayward tresses from her forehead, to climb in bed beside her.
Which was ridiculous because her bed was far too small for two and would probably collapse if they both occupied it. And this sort of thinking only proved he was every bit the idiot Francis always said he was, because the size of her bed was not the most compelling reason he had to release her.
He pulled his hands away rather more roughly than he’d intended.
“Thank you, sir,” her maid said. “Good night, sir.”
Ewan backed out of the room. Good night. It was already bloody morning, and he’d spent better nights in Russia in the middle of winter.
He should resign this position and return to Langley’s. Francis wasn’t worth the tedium of hours in a ballroom, and Ewan didn’t care about the money. He should just make a clean break from Ridlington and his daughter now.
But he knew he wouldn’t.
Eight
He was there when she stepped into her bedchamber. Susan didn’t have to see her husband. She could feel his presence, and the duke radiated anger. Without turning, she took a deep breath and quietly closed her door. Outside the inky sky was streaked with gray as dawn crept like a specter over the fog-shrouded city. Not even the servants had been awake when she’d used her key to open the town house door. The footman seated in the vestibule had snored softly in his chair. Susan had tiptoed past so as not to disturb the poor boy’s slumber.
“You are up early,” she said calmly, her voice betraying none of the fluttering in her belly at her husband’s presence in her bedchamber. Twice in a week. That was unheard of. She turned and her breath caught.
“I haven’t gone to bed and you know it,” he said, not bothering to rise from the chair beside her bed. His long legs stretched out before him, making him appear deceptively relaxed. His cravat was undone, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his shirt open at the throat. In the hand resting on the armchair, he held a snifter of what she thought was brandy, though the amber liquid looked untouched. His dark hair, streaked with silver, was uncharacteristically disheveled, as though he’d run his hands through it over and over again. Susan’s fingers itched to smooth the thick locks back into place, though it had been years since she’d touched him so intimately.
“That makes two of us.” She loosed the ties of the dark mantle she wore and removed it with a bit of a flourish, laying it on the longue at the foot of her bed. She felt an uncomfortable prickle on the back of her neck at his nearness to her.
At his nearness to her bed.
Too late she wished she had kept the mantle in place. Underneath she wore a dress of black organza with cotton warp and silk weft. The heavily embroidered hem was of gold silk and metal in the shape of flowers and curlicues. Now she wished the dress was more substantial. She adored the lightweight organza but would have felt more protected in wool—she glanced at her fuming husband—or perhaps a suit of armor.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
The prickle of awareness burned hotter, turning to annoyance.
“I beg your pardon.” She cut him a look from under her lashes. “But I do not have to answer to you.”
He began to rise, then seemed to think better of it.
“You left Lorrie unchaperoned. We could not find you when she was ready to depart.” His tone held a note of accusation, but she was not fooled. He knew their daughter was in capable hands.
“She was hardly unchaperoned.” She crossed to her dressing table and began to remove her heavy gold necklace and earbobs. “Mr. Mostyn played the part of the hawk quite well.”
Charles rose and moved to stand behind her. Sitting in his presence had been a mistake. Now she was at a disadvantage. She might have risen, but he placed his large warm hands on her shoulders. Instead of relaxing her, his touch made her tense, her breathing quickened.
“He is a man and not a relation,” the duke said, his voice so low she had to strain. “He is her protector, not a chaperone.”
“Well, he was protecting her very well tonight out in the park,” Susan said, then winced. She hadn’t meant to speak of her suspicions about what had transpired outside the conservatory. But Charles’s hands on her were making it difficult for her to think. She’d missed his touch, so tender and patient. She hadn’t known how much she missed his hands on her until now, when he was touching her again. “But you needn’t worry,” she added hastily. “I spoke to him.”
“I see. You think he is attracted to Lorraine?” In the mirror, his green eyes, so much like his daughter’s, met hers.
“I think he kissed her.”
“Interesting.” The duke reached up and slid a hairpin from Susan’s coiffure. She watched as a section fell down around her shoulders, the silky tresses making her shiver. Charles reached for another.
“Do you want him to kiss her? He’s not one of the men we agreed upon. Not one of the men we placed on the list.” Another section of hair fell, tickling her bare shoulders. Charles’s gaze was hot as it held hers.
“That was your list.” He gathered the fallen hair, slid his hand through it, smoothing it.