Lorrie hadn’t expected the Viking to walk away. She’d hoped to challenge him, raise his fighting spirit, but instead he’d pushed away from her and strode out the door.
She’d stood in the office and wanted to call him back—and not only because she hated to lose. She hated to lose him. Finally, Lorrie looked down at the papers on the edge of her father’s desk. The Viking had carried them into the room and left them, probably by accident. She opened the folder that contained them and scanned the contents—account books, bills of sale, mortgage papers. All of it seemed to pertain to the Earl of Pembroke. On another sheet was a long list of numbers, many of them scratched out. Was this the Viking’s writing? Were these his attempt to work out the financial matter he had mentioned? But surely he would need to be able to read these papers to understand the problem. Lorrie didn’t know how long she had stood in the library, looking through the papers, but finally, Welly whined and Lorrie had realized the Viking wouldn’t be back.
Back in her own room—after a quick stop in the garden so Welly could sniff every flower, insect, rock, and finally empty his bladder—Lorrie lay in bed unable to sleep. When had she begun to look forward to seeing the Viking every day? When had the mere fact of him leaving a room made the world dim? She had thought teaching him to read would give her the time with him she craved—and perhaps result in a few more of those forbidden but wonderful kisses. Now she’d driven him further away.
“Unfortunate,” she said to herself. In his little bed near hers, Welly’s head popped up at the sound of her voice. “Because perhaps I really might be of some help to him.”
It didn’t surprise her when the Viking was absent from breakfast the next day or when he chose to meet the family at the theater—the god-awful opera again—instead of riding in their coach. It didn’t surprise her when the Viking spent a week making every effort to avoid being alone with her. He was with her all the time, but always out of earshot or behind one of the half dozen or so of her fawning suitors. Lorrie was beginning to wonder if she’d ever have a chance to speak to him privately again. She’d inquired about him very indirectly on several occasions and managed to piece together half a dozen facts—the most salient of these was that he had served as the muscle inside a gaming hell called Langley’s in St. James’s.
Lorrie could only assume he must have had lodgings at the hell because he did not appear to own a flat, and he had to sleep somewhere when he was not sleeping in her father’s town house, and that was all too common an occurrence now. Her other option was the club the Viking and the other men of Draven’s troop frequented. But she thought she might have even less luck gaining entry into the club than into the hell.
She had only begun to scheme a way to pay him a visit at the club when one night, after appearing to completely ignore her at a ball, he made a point of handing her into the coach. A perfectly capable footman stood by, and so Lorrie had turned her head in surprise.
“The library,” he’d whispered. And then he was gone.
She half believed she’d imagined the whispered request. She’d wanted so badly to see him that it seemed impossible her wish was finally coming to fruition. That night she’d barely paid any attention as Nell had undressed her and helped her don her nightclothes. All Lorrie cared about was the interminable amount of time before the rest of the household went to bed and she was once again alone with the Viking.
Finally, the house was silent, and she padded downstairs on bare feet. She had slippers, but she could only find one, and from the lowered ears and drooped-head posture Welly had been giving her, she could guess where the other had gone.
Lorrie pushed the library door open and stepped inside, surprised to see the Viking seated at her father’s desk with his back to the door. He made the large furnishing seem so small. Indeed, the entire room, with its high ceilings and shelves of books soaring upward, was dwarfed by his presence.
And when he turned to look at her with those cool blue eyes, she caught her breath.
I’m in love with him.
The thought had come from nowhere, and she immediately pushed it away. Ridiculous. She was in love with Francis. Charming and handsome Francis…who she had not thought about in days.
“Close the door,” he said.
His low voice, little more than a rumble, awakened butterflies in her belly, and she was glad to turn away and have something to occupy her hands, which had begun to tremble.
When she turned back, he pointed to the desk. The folder with Pembroke’s papers were before him. Lorrie frowned, uncertainly. “You want me to teach you how to read?”
“No. I told you. It’s pointless. No offence, my lady, but better tutors than you have tried and failed. My father spared no expense, and although none of them ever called what I have word blindness, they all said the same thing in the end. I will never read.”
Lorrie swallowed, feeling miserable. She had wanted to help so badly. “That isn’t true,” she said finally. “It might be slow and difficult, but I believe you can learn.”
He waved a hand. “I don’t have time for slow and difficult at the moment. I need your help.”
“My help?” She pressed a hand to her heart.
He wet his lips as though the act of speaking was a novelty. “I recently visited my father at his town house. Your intended was there.”
“Francis?”
He made a sound of agreement. “They had called for me to tell me…” He paused and cupped the back of his neck as though it ached. “They wanted to inform me…” He rose and paced behind the desk.
She’d forgotten how much he seemed to dominate a room when he stood. Even a comfortably sized room like her father’s library seemed cramped when he moved about in it. It was as though everything that was not him or part of him shrank in comparison.
He paced, seeming to struggle with finding the words he wanted. “The problem seems to be that my father is ruined.” He nodded as though to say, There. I have said it.
Lorrie sank into the chair across from him. “What do you mean ‘ruined’?”
“He has been swindled out of all the money he has not tied up in entailments. There is no dowry for my sister, no more for my brother Michael’s living, and no allowance for me. What’s more, he’s mortgaged the property that came to him through my mother, and now he will lose that as well. I know it’s considered rude to discuss money—”
She waved her hand. “But in times like this you cannot keep quiet. I promise you, I think no less of you or your family. It has happened to many great families.”