Cautiously, Lorrie stepped onto the pot and peeked over the edge of the windowsill. She ducked down just as quickly. The dratted Viking faced the window. She peeked up again and then cursed under her breath. The Viking stared at her with a look of disapproval. So much for not being seen. Still, her father’s back was to the window, and he was the one she did not want to catch her.
She gave the Viking a little wave, and the line between his brows deepened. Then his gaze went to her father’s face and he nodded as though listening to something the duke was saying. When the Viking glanced back at her, Lorrie put a finger to her lips, reminding him not to say anything about the day before.
He made no sign he understood, so Lorrie jumped up and down to catch his attention again. Unfortunately, her father must have sensed the movement because he turned to look over his shoulder, and Lorrie had to duck so quickly she stumbled off the flowerpot and fell on her bottom in the shrubbery.
By the time she freed herself, her arms were scratched, leaves were in her hair, and her dress was torn. At this point, she hardly cared whether the Viking reported her misbehavior to her father or not. Under the window, she dusted herself off just as the Viking peered out and down at her.
His expression was one of concern, and she gave him a little wave to let him know she was uninjured. His serious expression seemed carved in granite. Did the man ever smile? Even though she knew she must look a fright, she blew him a kiss before skipping away. Unfortunately, she hadn’t remembered the shrubbery, and she tripped over a trunk and stumbled forward most ungracefully.
Cheeks burning with embarrassment, she didn’t turn back.
*
Had Lady Lorraine looked over her shoulder at that precise moment, she might have seen the ghost of a smile—or what passed for a smile—on Ewan’s lips. She was quite the most ridiculous person he had ever encountered. When her face had popped into the window behind the duke he’d wondered what the hell she was about. And then when she’d seemed to tumble out of sight, he worried she’d broken her neck. He’d almost craned his neck out of concern, but then she was back again.
She reappeared in the window, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in wild disarray and a smudge of dirt on her cheek that made her look…he did not know the word. He tried to think how Beaumont might describe her.
Adorable. That was what Rafe would have called her. Ewan would have called her fortunate to still be alive, since she seemed to court trouble at every turn.
Ridlington had been droning on whilst the charade outside continued. He seemed quite at home in the large room full of bookshelves and paneled in dark wood. Ewan couldn’t have said what the duke spoke of. The duke said whatever men did when they didn’t want to state their business outright. Ewan found it much more interesting to watch the duke’s daughter make her way back inside via the servants’ entrance.
“You must be wondering why I asked you here,” Ridlington said.
Ewan turned to face him. Finally, the man would state his business.
“I know something about your background.”
Or not. Ewan recognized the signs of more meaningless chatter. Ewan didn’t need to be told about his own background. He knew it already, but perhaps the duke felt reassured recounting it.
“I know you served in the Peninsular War. You were in a special unit under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Draven.”
Special. Yes, that was one way to describe it.
The duke, who had stood to offer tea to Ewan and then remained standing when Ewan went to the window, sipped his tea. “My understanding is your group was given assignments other units rejected. There were thirty of you, all sons of nobility. The best and the brightest.”
“The expendable,” Ewan added.
The duke nodded. “Yes, none of you were heirs to the title. Only younger sons. Twelve of you returned, and you in particular distinguished yourself.”
“I did my duty. Nothing more.”
“The stories I heard were they called you the Protector because of the risks you took to keep the other men safe. Stories about you running back into a burning building to save—”
Ewan raised a hand. His belly tightened at the mention of that day. The duke spoke of it, his voice flat and even, but to Ewan the memory was filled with panic and anguish. He could still see the face of the man he’d had to leave. Peter had been trapped behind a wall of fire, and Ewan’s strength hadn’t given him the ability to walk through fire. He’d left Peter to burn to death, left him as the heat seared his flesh and the screams began. Ewan would never forget those screams or how weak and paltry they’d made him feel. A man like Ridlington would never understand. With a wave of his hand, Ewan pretended to dismiss the retelling out of modesty. “We all have our talents. Mine is my strength.”
“And that, my good sir, is exactly why I have come to you—or rather, asked you to come to me. I am in need of a bodyguard.”
When Ewan didn’t speak, the duke swallowed more tea.
“Not for me. For my daughter.”
Ewan gritted his teeth. If the duke had said this from the start, it would have saved them both time. Ewan was no nursemaid. The duke’s request made perfect sense. It was quite obvious to Ewan that the lady needed a bodyguard, possibly three or four bodyguards. It was also clear that Ewan was not the man for the position. He had no intention of playing chaperone to a spoiled debutante of the ton.
His thoughts might have shown on his face as the duke spoke quickly. “I do not want any bodyguard. I want a man who knows Society. The Season has begun, and Lady Lorraine will be attending balls, the theater, dinner parties, and whatnot. A man like you, the son of the Earl of Pembroke, can not only protect her but fit in at these affairs.” At this last statement, the duke gave Ewan a rather dubious look. Ewan was certain the words had sounded quite pleasing in Ridlington’s mind, but saying them to Ewan, who was over six feet tall and built of muscle, was a bit ridiculous. If there was anywhere Ewan did not belong, it was in a Society drawing room.
“I will pay you extremely well.” The duke slid a folded sheet of paper across the desk. Ewan imagined if he opened it, a rather large number with several zeroes behind it would be written there.
Without touching the paper, Ewan shook his head. “This is not for me.” He gave the duke a curt bow and started for the door.
“Wait!” the duke ordered. “I haven’t told you all of it.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Ewan lifted the latch.
“Please,” the duke said from behind him, his voice quiet as though he was unaccustomed to pleading. “I need your help.”
Ewan couldn’t walk away from a man who sounded that desperate. He lowered the latch and stood facing the door.
“Lorrie has it in her head that she is in love with a gentleman I find unacceptable.”