But he hadn’t been prepared for his own response. Apparently, hers had been equally as charged. Ewan wouldn’t have said she’d thrown herself at him, but it had taken more willpower than it should have to resist kissing her when she’d all but demanded it of him. He’d grown uncomfortably hard when she’d begun talking about her needs and desires. Ewan had never considered that women might have the same urges men had. He’d never taken an unwilling woman to his bed, and he did not consider himself a selfish lover, but he had never thought about why the women wanted to go to his bed.
Lady Lorraine had mentioned feeling deprived of touch and affection. But those feelings weren’t as wicked as she might think. He’d been similarly deprived and had learned to shove those needs down deep. Her response was to marry Francis Mostyn. But Ewan had no illusions that his cousin was in love with Lady Lorraine. He wanted her dowry, and once he had it, he would discard his wife like a browning apple core.
But even if Ewan had been able to express these thoughts in words, he had no right to mention them. He had no proof Francis would treat her badly. Given enough time, she might forget Francis. Her father certainly counted on her meeting another man who turned her head. Her mother made every effort to throw eligible men—young and old—in her path.
But in that way Lady Lorraine reminded him of himself. She was loyal to a fault. She thought herself in love with Francis, and she would not consider other men.
Ewan was trained to look for chinks in his opponent’s armor. When a man tended to shift to the right before throwing a punch, Ewan hit him on the left. If a man liked to jab low with a dagger, Ewan jumped on a table and made him jab high.
Throw off your opponent had been as much his mantra as Control and restraint.
And the kiss he’d given Lady Lorraine had thrown her off and challenged his control. Chagrined as he was to admit it, he was the chink in the lady’s armor.
Ewan had never considered himself a man of honor. He left concerns about honor and duty to Wraxall. Ewan had no qualms about fighting dirty. But he was no rake. He didn’t take advantage of women. He didn’t seduce innocents or pretend a night of passion was anything more than a physical release. As he’d told Lady Lorraine, he didn’t pretend.
But what was the more honorable course of action in this case? Use the lady’s desire for him against her or allow her to be duped by his arse of a cousin?
Ewan didn’t have the answer, but he was certain of one thing. Something must be done about Francis Mostyn.
The next morning Ewan realized it was already too late.
Nine
Breakfast was usually a tedious affair. Lorrie and whichever of her brothers were home—today that was neither—ate in silence while the duke read the Times. Her mother breakfasted in bed and rarely showed herself until well after noon. This morning Lorrie pushed eggs about on her plate while she contemplated the large pile of correspondence to which she must reply followed by the hours she must spend dressing in order to look presentable for whichever ball she need attend tonight.
She was about to close her eyes and attempt to nap until she could be excused when the dining room door opened and the Viking strode in. Every single one of Lorrie’s senses came alive then, much to her annoyance. She certainly did not want to notice how his trousers clung to his muscled thighs or how broad his shoulders appeared even in a coat that was somewhat less than fashionable. But then the Viking did not care about fashion, else he would have worn a cravat and breeches instead of leaving his neck bare and donning trousers.
His icy blue eyes rested on her for a moment before he nodded to her father.
The duke lowered his paper. “Good morning, Mostyn. I wondered when you would finally join us for breakfast.”
The Viking made a sound and proceeded to fill a plate with three servings of every dish on the sideboard. Lorrie tried not to watch him and instead concentrated on her own barely touched food. But she couldn’t help but gape at the mountain of food he set at the place directly across from her. He lowered himself into the chair with more grace than she would have expected. When Bellweather inquired as to whether he might like coffee or tea, the Viking answered, “Yes.”
The duke laid his paper on the table. “Lorrie,” he said. She sighed, wishing he would return to ignoring her.
“What do you have planned for today?”
The Viking raised his eyes from his plate to glance at her. She tried not to blush, but she remembered all too well the fool she had made of herself the night before. She’d all but thrown herself at him in the garden.
“I have letters to write and then must prepare for the Godfreys’ ball, Papa.”
“Good. I always say one must never neglect one’s correspondence.”
Lorrie gave him a tight smile.
“And you, Mr. Mostyn,” the duke said, turning to look at the Viking who had managed to eat almost half of his breakfast already. “What are your plans?”
Lorrie expected the man to give a one-word answer, but instead he set his fork on his plate. “There’s a tree in the garden that must be cut down.”
Lorrie’s eyes widened, but she bit her lips before she could say something she would regret later.
“You wish to trim the trees?” the duke said slowly.
“Not personally.”
“I see. We might hire men to do the work, but the gardener has not recommended any such action.”
“I was in the garden last night. One of the tree limbs brushes against Lady Lorraine’s window. The tree must be removed.”
It was the first time she’d heard her name on his lips, and it almost surprised her that he knew it.
“A storm might break the glass.”
“It might.” Her father cut a look at her, and Lorrie looked back at her eggs, now cold and congealing.
“Speak to the gardener. He will know whom to hire for the job. I trust you will accompany us to the Godfreys tonight.”
The Viking nodded and returned to his breakfast. He ate efficiently, managing to consume vast quantities without shoveling the food in his mouth. In very little time he rose to fill his plate again.
The duke lifted his paper, and Lorrie opened her mouth to beg to be excused when one of the footmen entered carrying a silver salver with a white letter on top. Lorrie expected Caleb to bring the letter to her father. Parliament was in session, and he received dozens of letters each week, but instead the footman stood beside the Viking’s chair. The Viking, having filled his plate again, returned to his seat, giving the man barely a glance before he began to eat again.
“A letter came for you, sir,” the footman said, lowering the tray.
The Viking gave the servant a look of incredulity, then laid down his fork and took the letter. Lorrie made no pretense of watching the entire exchange. She suspected her father peered over the top of his paper as well. She wouldn’t have been so intrigued except that, despite having attended a dozen events with him, she had never seen the Viking so much as speak to another man or a woman without having to do so out of politeness. The man truly did not appear to have any friends or even acquaintances, at least not among the ton.