And so when he received a letter, she could not help but be curious. She craned her neck to read the envelope and caught not only Mr. Mostyn’s name—the Honorable Ewan Mostyn—but the name of the sender—the Earl of Pembroke.
The Viking’s father had sent him a letter. She watched as he lifted the letter from the tray, and stared at it, his brow furrowed as though it was some sort of foreign object. Then his gaze met hers and he tucked the letter into his coat pocket. She hadn’t expected him to read it aloud, but she felt a sense of disappointment nonetheless.
Finally, the Viking went back to his food, and her father pretended he had never taken his eyes from the paper, and Lorrie was able to take her leave. She collected Welly and went directly to the parlor in the front of the house, whose window faced the park in Berkley Square and which was usually filled with sun this time of year. As the day was cloudy and overcast, she had to light a candle in order to write. She’d spent perhaps an hour or so in that manner, Welly drowsing at her feet and her pen steadily scratching along on the vellum, when her candle sputtered out. She hadn’t taken the time to trim the wick, and it had doubled over into the wax. She searched the desk for another and finding none rose to seek out the housekeeper and ask her for another candle or perhaps a lamp.
Lorrie hadn’t closed the parlor door all the way and pulled it open without making a sound. Consequently, the Viking must not have heard her step into the vestibule for he stood there, letter in hand, his lips working silently. Something about the way he stared at the letter and moved his mouth reminded her of the few times she had gone to the village school to judge the students’ oration or to listen as they recited Shakespearean sonnets. Such was the life of a duke’s daughter while in the country. But those had been children just learning to read, and the Viking was a grown man.
Suddenly he looked up at her, and for an instant she saw what seemed to be embarrassment cross his face.
“Can’t you read it?” she asked without even thinking.
“What the devil do you care?” he said, with rather more heat than she had anticipated.
Her defenses were immediately engaged. “I don’t. I thought you had a tree to cut down.”
“I do.”
Lorrie settled her hands on her hips. “That’s not necessary, you know. That tree has been there for as long as the family has owned the house. If you—” She became aware of a maid dusting nearby. “Alice, could you ask Mrs. Davies to bring me a lamp? I need more light in the parlor.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid curtsied and started away. Lorrie didn’t believe for a moment she would rush to find the housekeeper if she thought there was something more interesting to be heard in the vestibule. Lorrie beckoned the Viking to join her in the parlor.
He shook his head, and she scowled at him. “For the sake of the tree, I must ask you to listen to what I have to say. You may stand on one side of the room, and I will stand on the other.” She lowered her voice to a hiss. “I won’t throw myself at you, I promise.”
Now he had the good sense to look about him, and whatever he saw must have convinced him speaking to her in private was worth a few moments of his time. He joined her in the parlor, and this time she did close the door. She held up a hand to stave off any protest he might make. “This way we won’t be overheard.” She took up her position beside the desk, while he stood nearer the fire. “As I was saying, there’s no need to cut the tree down. I find I have rather a strong attachment to that tree. If I promise not to use it to sneak out again, will you spare it?”
“No.”
Lorrie heaved a great sigh. Speaking to the man was like trying to coax her straight hair into the curls so fashionable at present—an onerous chore. “Why not?”
He stared past her, looking out the window.
“You don’t trust me, is that it? I am giving you my word.”
“I would feel better if all sources of temptation were removed.”
“If you think me that bad, then perhaps you should remove yourself. I am embarrassed at my demands on you last night.” Her cheeks heated as she spoke, but she kept her shoulders back and her back straight. “And yet I am able to resist throwing myself at you this morning.”
His eyes grew wary as though he half expected her to pounce at any moment.
Oh, but the man vexed her. “Dare I hope your father has some urgent news that requires you to return home?”
He started, appearing shocked at her words.
“Your father.” She gestured to the letter he still held in his hands. “When Caleb delivered it, I saw it had come from the Earl of Pembroke.”
The Viking looked down at it again, his eyes squinting.
“Didn’t you read it?” she asked.
His gaze came up quickly, the ice so sharp it might have sliced through her.
“I’m not stupid.”
Lorrie blinked in surprise. “Of course not. You’re the least stupid man I know, which I find rather annoying, by the way. I cannot seem to manage to maneuver around you. Still, it is early days. I may yet discover a way. Why would you believe I think you are stupid?”
He looked down at the letter and then back at her.
Something prickled at the back of her neck, something she had not considered before. But she could not seem to forget the way his lips had moved when he’d looked at the letter. Before he’d known he was being observed.
“You can read, can’t you?”
“Excuse me.” He started for the door. Lorrie remained rooted in place. Illiteracy was nothing new to her. Most of the poor and the lower classes could not read or write. Half of the servants her father employed were probably illiterate. But of course the Viking could read. He was no poor farmer or chimney sweep. He was the son of an earl who would have been given every advantage in life.
But if he could read, why hadn’t he answered her question?
“You can’t, can you?” she said as he reached for the door latch. “That’s why you were surprised when I mentioned your father. You didn’t know the letter was from him.”
He lifted the latch without looking at her, apparently unwilling to either confirm or deny her suppositions. A moment later, he was gone, and Lorrie was annoyed enough to want to put him from her mind completely.
And that was exactly what she intended to do until she found herself squinting in the gloomy light—drat that Alice!—at the escritoire as she drew a picture on a slip of foolscap.
*