Neville snapped his fingers. “That’s it then. He’s one of Draven’s Survivors.”
“And what, my dear, is Draven’s Survivors?” the duchess asked, gliding down the stairs. She adjusted a red and burnt-orange Turkey shawl as she walked, and Lorrie assumed she’d had to go back up to her chamber to fetch it. Thus far the spring of 1816 did not feel very spring-like at all.
The Duchess of Ridlington had married young and borne all of her children in the span of five years. She was not yet in her middle forties and looked to Lorrie as though she were still in her twenties. She had dark brown hair and hazel eyes, a small nose, and a petite form. Lorrie had been taller than her mother when she turned twelve. And though Lorrie was only average in height, she always felt like a giant compared to the duchess.
As usual, when in the presence of their mother, Neville became obnoxiously charming. He bowed over her hand and kissed her glove. “You look beautiful, Mama.”
She did, Lorrie thought. Her mother had chosen an apple-green dress that would have looked too young on any other matron of three and forty, but it looked perfect on the Duchess of Ridlington.
“Thank you.”
Neville cleared his throat. “Draven’s Survivors was the sobriquet of a group of thirty men chosen for some of the most dangerous missions in the war against Napoleon. The men were all educated and known to have special skills. Most, if not all, came from the nobility. Younger sons, like me,” he said, puffing his chest out slightly.
Lorrie wanted to roll her eyes. The closest Neville had been to a battle was on a chessboard.
The duchess tapped her fan on her cheek. “I’ve heard of them. And this Mr. Mostyn, what was his special skill?”
“I believe they called him the Protector. He looks like the man a soldier would want at his back in battle.”
Lorrie could not argue with that.
“Well then.” The duchess turned her gaze on her daughter. “You should be in capable hands, Lorraine.”
“I am not in need of a bodyguard,” Lorrie said stiffly. “Francis agreed to wait until we had Father’s blessing.” Dratted man.
The duchess sighed. “Really, dear.” That was as much as the duchess had said when Lorrie’s failed elopement had been discovered. It was not so much that the duchess, who was a rather neglectful mother, cared that her daughter had attempted to elope, it was more that she was disappointed in either her choice of husband or the poor elopement planning. Lorrie was not certain which.
If she had to guess, it was the poor planning. Francis might not be wealthy or titled, but he was handsome and dashing. Her mother had a weakness for handsome, dashing men. As she’d produced an heir, a spare, and a daughter to carry on the family name, the duke turned a blind eye to his duchess’s little liaisons.
The library door opened and the duke, dressed in his best dark coat and starched white cravat, emerged. He was followed by the Viking—only he did not look so much like a Viking tonight. Lorrie had seen him in a coat and snug breeches before, but there was something about the flowing white cravat that made him look like a lion with a collar about his neck. If the desired effect was to lessen the Viking’s dangerous edge, the cravat did not achieve its aim. Instead, the Viking appeared fiercer and as though he might tear the neckcloth from his throat at any moment.
In fact, Lorrie found herself hard-pressed to look away from the man and his simple but precisely tied cravat. She’d thought him handsome before, if in a feral sort of way, but looking at him now her body warmed and her chest tingled in a manner she could not quite explain.
Even Neville seemed taken aback when the Viking stood across from him in the vestibule. The duke made the introductions, and Neville spluttered and stammered his greetings. Still, everyone smiled and pretended it was normal to have a Viking in clothing that would have made Beau Brummell proud accompanying them to the opera. Lorrie had already been introduced and was required to say very little. She was thankful for the respite, especially since the carriage had seemed far too small with the Viking seated across from her. The lamps provided a cozy glow inside the conveyance, and she knew Mostyn was not looking at her. Still, she felt his presence keenly, and the warmth she’d felt in the vestibule clung to her so that she had to lay aside her wrap and resort to fanning herself, even though the night was unseasonably cool.
Finally, they arrived at the opera, and the party made their way to the duke’s box. Not long after, a throng of her mother’s admirers came to call, and her father excused himself—probably to call on his own paramour. Neville put the opera glasses to use, scanning the crowd, while Lorrie waved to a few of her acquaintances and spoke briefly with several men who came to the box to call on her.
During the carriage ride she had reminded herself of all of Francis’s wonderful qualities and of the brutal way his cousin, the Viking, had treated her beloved when they were children. She would tolerate her bodyguard, but she would not like him. She would not feel warm when she looked at him. That sort of sensation was reserved for her Mr. Mostyn. And with her love for the other Mr. Mostyn firmly entrenched in her mind, she was able to give only the briefest attention to the men who came to her father’s box to court her. None were as handsome or exciting as Francis. It did not hurt her intended’s cause that she felt strange speaking in front of the Viking. She might have flirted with a few of the men, just for fun, but how was she to flirt with the Viking watching her?
Finally, the opera began, and Lorrie turned her attention to the stage. Even though she knew Francis would not be in attendance, she surveyed the other boxes and the floor just in case. By the end of the first hour, she was impossibly bored, and excused herself to go to the ladies’ retiring room. She’d no sooner ducked through the box’s curtains than the Viking stepped out after her.
She wheeled around, and her heart jumped into her throat. Why, the man might as well roar like the lion he resembled. How her fingers itched to remove that cravat so she might place him back in the feral category and firmly take him out of the dangerously handsome category. Since she could not remove the cravat, or the man himself, she spoke a bit too sharply. “What is wrong?”
He shook his head. Of course the man did not speak to her.
“Then why leave the box?” she persisted.
“Where you go, I go,” he said.
That was her fault. She should have expected it. “I am only going to the ladies’ retiring room, and you will not be welcomed there. You might as well wait for me here.”