Words cannot express my longing for you to see you again. I cannot cease picturing your hands on me writing the beautiful words on the papers I hold so close to my breast my heart. I long to run away with you see you, hear your voice, and so on and so on—
Lorrie tossed the quill down, then started when Welly jumped to his feet, ran to the window, and began to bark. The little dog bounced up and down, his tail wagging so hard his whole body shook. Lorrie parted the curtains and peered out. This small parlor on the main floor faced the street, and as she peered down, she spotted a man exiting a hackney.
Not just any man. The Nordic giant from the day before.
No!
With Welly right on her heels, Lorrie lifted her skirts and ran from the room. She’d long ago perfected the art of running silently, and she made no sound as she scampered down the hall and all but flew down the staircase. Thankfully neither Bellweather nor any of the footmen had heard the carriage arrive, and Lorrie pulled open the door and jumped outside before the Viking could knock.
He paused at the bottom of the steps when he saw her, and she shut the door behind her to keep Welly from escaping. “What are you…doing here?” she panted.
The Viking stared at her as though she had escaped from an asylum. She supposed she probably did look rather wild and out of breath, but she was dressed and her hair had been coiffed…hadn’t it?
“Have you come to see my father?”
The Viking looked at the house and then at her, clearly trying to decide if she could be the daughter of a duke.
“The duke. My father. Have you come to tell him about yesterday? Because you can’t, you know.”
The Viking raised a brow.
“Very well, you could. I mean, I can’t stop you. I could try, but, well”—she looked him up and down—“you’re much stronger than I am and certainly bigger.”
Which was, of course, a gross understatement. She was not a petite woman, and this man still towered over her. He was easily two or three inches over six feet. He had blond hair, cut unfashionably short, and pale blue eyes. His features were as dramatic as his height. His face was all broad planes and jagged cuts of cheekbone and jaw. His clothes fit him well enough that she could see his frame was honed and muscled. What was more, his clothing was of good quality. He did not wear a cravat or a hat, though, and she found that rather odd, considering that his other garments were fashionable, clean, and polished.
She cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is that you shouldn’t tell him.”
The Viking crossed his arms, the stance of a man waiting patiently for explanation. “Why not? You were almost killed.”
“What? No! That’s an exaggeration.”
“I never exaggerate.”
No, he probably didn’t. He probably always said exactly what he meant and no more or less. Lorrie sighed, knowing she’d have to explain. Oh, but she dreaded explaining. “You see, my father and I are not on the best terms at the moment. I may or may not be at fault, depending on which point of view you take. If you tell him you saw me running down St. James’s Street, he’ll probably banish me to the country to live with Aunt Prudence, who we all call Aunt Pruneface because her face looks like a prune and she has the personality of one as well.”
The Viking did not even smile. Everyone smiled at that little anecdote!
“Please.” Lorrie put her hands together as though in prayer. “Do not send me to Aunt Pruneface.” The Viking looked unconvinced, and a phrase from one of Francis’s letters arose in her mind. “My soul will die a slow death.”
The Viking’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t want to be responsible for the death of my soul, do you?”
In answer, the Viking took a card from the pocket of his coat and handed it to her. It was her father’s calling card. She knew it immediately. And that meant her father had summoned the Viking. He had not come to report on her behavior, after all.
Not that she could trust he wouldn’t, but perhaps he would take pity on her.
“I suppose you want to knock on the door now, don’t you?”
“If it won’t endanger your soul.”
Was that supposed to be amusing? She would have been amused if she wasn’t so mortified. As though to spur her to action, he stepped onto the first step, and though he was still two steps below her, they were now equal in height. She swallowed and reached behind her for the door handle. “You go ahead. And if you—ahem—forget to mention you saw me yesterday and, um, today, that small kindness would be most sincerely appreciated.”
Lorrie pushed the door open, bent to retrieve Welly, and closed the door again. Then she lifted her skirts and ran back up the stairs just as the knocker banged ominously. She ducked around the corner, then peeked out to watch Bellweather enter the vestibule and open the door.
“May I help you?” Bellweather asked in his nasal voice, as though Nordic giants called at her father’s London town house every day.
The Viking handed Bellweather her father’s card. Clearly, the visitor was a man of few words. He had quite a nice voice though, low and rich.
“Ah, I see now,” Bellweather was saying as he opened the door to admit the Viking. “Come in, sir. His Grace is expecting you in the library.”
The library! Drat! She’d hoped the men would meet in the drawing room, making it possible for her to eavesdrop. But this was not a social call. Lorrie could not imagine the Viking ever made social calls. He was not the sort of man to discuss banal topics like the weather.
He followed Bellweather toward the duke’s library, looking up at the stairs as he passed. Lorrie ducked back behind the wall. Did he know she watched him? Probably. Those ice blue eyes seemed to miss very little.
She had two options now. One, she could return to her room and sit on pins and needles, waiting to see if her father summoned her to chastise her for her—as he would say—inappropriate and reckless behavior. Two, she could try to watch the meeting from the library window to gauge her father’s behavior and discover whether or not the Viking betrayed her.
As she had no wish to sit in her chamber and wait, she deposited Wellington on her bed, closed the bedchamber door, and took the servants’ stairs to the ground floor and into the garden. Her father’s library had several windows, but all had been set rather high off the ground. She crept to the first window and peered inside, but she was too short and could only see the tops of the bookshelves lining the far wall. Nearby, a forgotten flowerpot had rolled on its side behind the shrubbery. Lorrie dragged it out and set it upside down under the window. Her white dress was now streaked with dirt and her slippers ruined, but that was a problem for later.