Ewan strolled through the Dewhursts’ ball, keeping a few feet behind Lady Lorraine. The fourth Baron Dewhurst was one of the most fashionable men in London, despite his American wife, and the ton had turned out to marvel at the ballroom, which had been draped with silks and covered with Turkey rugs in order to give the impression of an eastern sheik’s palace. The dance floor remained bare, of course, but surely even those brave enough to partake in the still relatively scandalous waltz could imagine they were in Arabia since the scent of flowers permeated. Ewan had no knowledge of what sorts of flowers adorned the pots and baskets hanging from the columns—he could identify roses and daisies—but he thought he recognized blue and white flowers that resembled pictures of lotus plants he’d seen in childhood books.
Lady Lorraine was not allowed to dance the waltz, and she took the opportunity to step out of the warm ballroom and into the supper room, where she sampled Turkish coffee and several other eastern delicacies Ewan did not recognize, but which he sampled as well.
Except for turnips, Ewan had never met a food he did not like, and these dishes were spicy and exotic. As a general rule, he did not eat when he was working, but one glance at Lady Lorraine showed her deep in conversation with another young woman, both ladies sipping their rich coffee.
Ewan tasted a creamy yellow concoction, a spicy red sauce he ascertained he should dip the flat bread into, and finally a thick green stew-like dish where he was pleased to find potatoes hidden. The sweets were even more tempting. Dates and figs, milk and rice topped with nuts, and some sort of pastry filled with custard and dripping with sweet syrup.
By the time Ewan had managed to clean his hands of the sugar, the waltz had ended. Lady Lorraine was no longer in the supper room. It annoyed him that she hadn’t fetched him before leaving, but he supposed she had returned to the ballroom for her next dance.
He was wrong.
He’d had her recite the names of her partners for the evening, and he’d memorized the list. It was the same group of men she always danced with—an assortment of heirs to marquessates, dukedoms, or great fortunes. Ewan found her partner in the ballroom, a man a little older than Ewan who would inherit an earldom.
“Mr. Mostyn,” Viscount Whatshisname—who was number four on the dance card—said as he bowed to Ewan. “Have you seen Lady Lorraine?”
Ewan gritted his teeth. “I will find her.”
“I thought I saw her enter the supper room. Shall I search there?”
Ewan shrugged. The viscount could do what he liked, but Ewan had a feeling he knew exactly where the lady had gone.
As he did for all balls they attended, Ewan required the duke’s secretary to provide a guest list the day of the event. The secretary grumbled about this additional task and the delicacy of requesting such information, but he managed it. Gladstone then recited the names of the guests—sometimes to Ewan alone and sometimes to both Ewan and the duke—before the ball.
Francis Mostyn had been on the Dewhursts’ list.
His cousin had waited until Ewan was distracted by the food in the supper room and then whisked Lady Lorraine away. Ewan couldn’t even be angry at Francis. It was Ewan’s own weakness he cursed.
Turning away from the viscount without another word, Ewan ducked behind one of the silk drapes and peered out the long windows of the ballroom. The lawns were unlit and the night was cold enough that it felt more like late autumn than late spring. Ewan doubted Francis had led the duke’s daughter outside, and he hoped Lorraine was not foolish enough to assent to go outside if it was suggested.
That meant she was inside the house, a large town house with dozens of rooms. Except Ewan had noted the footmen stationed about the house when he’d first come in. Clearly the Dewhursts wanted no scandals at their ball, no ladies being ruined in the library.
Ewan made his way out of the ballroom, ignored the supper room, and passed the library. A footman stood guard there. “Did anyone enter?” he asked.
“No, sir. This room is closed.”
Ewan looked about the busy vestibule with men and women coming and going, shedding wraps while others pulled pelisses on to stave off the chill. “What is that door?” he asked, pointing to another beside the dining room. It probably connected to the dining room, but Ewan had been so focused on the food, he hadn’t noticed it.
“A parlor, sir.”
“Is it closed?”
“No, sir. Lord Dewhurst asked that it remain open to accommodate any older guests who might need to rest later in the evening or linger over drinks after dinner.”
Which meant it was probably empty at the moment. Ewan started for the door, then thought better of it. He cut through the supper room, steadfastly ignoring that sticky sweet dessert, and spotted the door to the parlor immediately. It was closed, and he put his hand on the latch and silently opened it.
One look inside confirmed his suspicions. The room was empty but for a single couple standing near the mantel. The lady wore a bluish green gown with gold along the hem and ornamenting the sleeves. The color turned her eyes blue-green and the gold leaves in her dark hair made it look even richer. He knew the dress and the lady. Lorraine stood in the arms of his cousin. Francis had both hands planted on her back, and he kissed Lorraine quite passionately.
For her part, the lady returned the affections.
Pain speared through Ewan so fiercely he all but expected a knife to protrude from his lungs. Betrayal—he knew that feeling well—but mixed along with it was also another feeling, jealousy. He knew that one as well, had come to associate it with Francis Mostyn.
Ewan had the impulse to stand in the doorway and roar. Was this how the lady repaid him for spilling out his heart the night before? Why not just rip it out and stomp on it? It might have hurt less.
But he also had the strange impulse to close the door, not to intrude on this private moment. Of course, he’d been paid to intrude, paid to stop just this sort of behavior. If she’d been kissing another man—Viscount Whatshisname, for example—Ewan would have had an easier time looking the other way. After all, the Duke and Duchess of Ridlington wanted their daughter to consider the men on her dance card.
Ewan wouldn’t have liked looking away. He would have wanted to rip her out of any man’s arms and then smash that man into little more than pink pulp.
Ewan wanted to do the same to Francis. And he had license to knock Francis about a bit, and it would give him temporary satisfaction. But Ewan saw the way Lorraine’s fingers closed on Francis’s coat, the way her breath hitched, and her body melted into his. All her uncertainty about marrying Francis from the night before seemed to have fled.
Had nothing they’d shared in Ridlington’s library mattered to her? Had nothing Ewan had said, the pain he’d allowed her to see, the embrace afterward—had none of that mattered? Ewan clenched his jaw and pushed the anger and the hurt down. He could not allow it to matter. His job was to prevent an elopement, whether the lady loved his cousin or did not, whether she eventually married him or did not, was no concern of his.
He was the man her father paid to guard her. Nothing more.