Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Bethany Bennett

  Cover design by Daniela Medina

  Cover illustration by Judy York

  Cover photography by Shirley Green

  Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

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  Forever

  Hachette Book Group

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  First Edition: October 2020

  Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5387-3566-4 (mass market), 978-1-5387-3568-8 (ebook)

  E3-20200910-DA-NF-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  About the Author

  Looking for more historical romances? Fall in love with these sexy rogues and darling ladies from Forever!

  To Nicole Locke for asking if I was serious and then holding my hand through the learning curves.

  To Daphne Chase for always having my back, occasionally making me cry, and believing in this book even after reading the first draft.

  To Alexa Croyle for being the best cheerleader ever. Like. Ever.

  And finally, to the high school guidance counselor who assured me I’d amount to nothing: checkmate.

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  Chapter One

  Somewhere in Warwickshire, Late August 1819

  Ethan Ridley—Mac to his friends, Lord Amesbury to everyone else—lounged outside the Boar and Hound. With his face lifted toward the sky, he closed his eyes, taking in the familiar smells of horses and the hearty breakfast served at the inn. Scents of perfectly cooked sausages and fresh bread had him considering a second helping.

  Thin wisps of fog would soon give way to the warm August sun, but for now, they clung, hovering in the trees like wraiths. The cool brush of a breeze lifted goose bumps on his throat, where yesterday’s cravat hung in a haphazard knot, the linen limp from a second day of being tied. When packing, he’d forgotten a second cravat but remembered the book he was currently reading, so Ethan wasn’t terribly upset about the lack of fresh accessories.

  He shifted from one foot to the other. Not for the first time this morning, he considered leaving Calvin behind. They’d traveled all the way from London to visit a highly regarded brewery to see how its processes could be applied to his own budding business venture. After waiting for over thirty minutes past the agreed time, he suspected at least another quarter hour would pass before Calvin appeared looking fresh and annoyingly rested.

  Running a hand through his hair, Ethan winced as the strands snagged on calloused fingers. No doubt the unruly curls were assuming their usual vertical position, so he jammed his hat down over the mess. One of these days he’d get a haircut, but today was not that day. Tomorrow didn’t look promising either.

  The clattering of hooves caught his attention as a wreck of a woman barreled into the stable yard. “There’s been an accident! I need a surgeon.”

  It was the blood that stopped him from acting right away. God, so much blood. It covered her face and the top half of her traveling gown. She rode astride with her skirts hiked up and had the fiercest expression he’d ever seen on a woman. Like a warrior goddess hell-bent on dragging the next poor sod who got in her way into the afterlife, she didn’t rein in the mount until they were nearly upon him.

  Forcing his legs to move, he shouldered through the taproom’s doorway. “We need help out here!” Without waiting for the occupants to jump to attention, he returned to the woman. Ethan swiped a palm over his brow, clearing away fear-ridden sweat, then placed a steadying hand on the heaving chest of the horse. For a moment, his mind had tried to retreat to another accident five years before. Blood had soaked a different roadside while he held his friend, calling for aid until his voice failed. But the past, with its dark, clawed memories, would have to wait.

  “My coachman has a broken leg.” The woman slid off the horse’s back. She touched her forehead, and her fingers came away wet and red. With a grimace, she wiped them on her skirts. One eye had swollen shut, and a cut near her hairline seemed the probable source of most of the blood. “He was unconscious when I left. My maid is with him.”

  “Where’s the accident, miss?” a man from the inn asked, taking the long leather traces she’d used as reins. Men spilled out of the taproom to lend their aid while grooms readied mounts and gathered carts to form a rescue party.

  “By my best guess, they are perhaps three miles away. Directly down this road. You can’t miss them.” She pointed back in the direction from which she’d ridden.

  Waving over a fellow whom he’d seen eating with the locals at the morning meal, Ethan said, “We’ll need the surgeon. Sir, do you know where tae find him?”

  “Yes, milord. I’ll fetch ’im.” The man donned his hat and scurried down the road toward the village.

  The woman swayed on her feet, appearing less warrior-like by the minute and more like a maiden about to faint from blood loss. Before Ethan could say something, Calvin arrived and offered his arm to escort her inside. Just as well. Ethan might want to help, but Cal’s particular skill set would be more useful to a damsel in distress. She went with his friend willingly enough, no doubt won over by his charm. Charm wasn’t Ethan’s strongest trait. Better to stay in the stable yard until everyone had a job and was on their way.

  * * *

  A gentleman with hair that glowed like a halo grasped Lottie’s elbow, speaking in the same tone she would use with a frightened horse. �
��Perhaps you should sit. Your head wound is still bleeding. Frankly, you need help as much as your coachman.” Her escort offered Lottie a seat in the public room, which she took, moving with precision to avoid further irritating the bruises making themselves known.

  After crawling out of the wreckage, she’d not thought beyond flinging herself atop a carriage horse, then praying she’d stay seated long enough to find a doctor. The shaking in Lottie’s legs began, and she feared the rest of her body would follow suit until twitchy, useless nerves overtook her. Lacing her fingers together steadied her somewhat while she waited for her vision to clear. Dear Lord, one of her eyes wasn’t working correctly. No wonder her face hurt.

  She tried to focus on the man who’d helped her. His striking features and perfect attire seemed more suited to a London drawing room than a Warwickshire country inn. “What brings a pretty fellow like you to a town like this?” A disconnect between her ears and mouth made the words come out slow and slurred. Mercy, her head hurt.

  Following his gaze to a sparkling window overlooking the yard, she spied the behemoth of a man they’d left behind deploying volunteers and taking control of the situation with an air of command no one questioned. Ah, he must be here with the man using his impressive presence to get things done. The man’s confidence amidst an emergency didn’t hurt his aura of competence.

  Fresh blood seeped past her lashes. Wincing, she turned from the scene and wiped an already filthy hand over her eyes.

  The innkeeper’s wife arrived with water and a stack of cloths. “I’m Mrs. Pringle, dearie. Let’s look at your head and see what we’re about, shall we?”

  Lottie waved a hand. “It’s nothing. Nothing serious at any rate. I’m sure I’ll be fine after a bath and rest. My coachman needs a doctor far more than I do.”

  Clean tables and the scent of fresh bread made the inn warm and cozy. Hopefully, the rooms upstairs would be as welcoming. She desperately wanted to get her bearings, then find a tub and a bed. A bath would be heaven.

  The elegant stranger pushed: “Please, miss, let her clear away the blood—”

  Chilly air danced over her cheek as the commanding man from the courtyard entered the room. With a blunt “Give me the rag,” he once again took charge, swiping the cloth from Mrs. Pringle’s hand.

  Her charming escort rolled his eyes. “Fine, Mac. Take over. I’ll see if I’m needed outside.”

  The giant grunted an acknowledgment. Really, were actual words too much to ask? A few moments before he’d been kind, but now surly impatience colored his demeanor. The sheer size of him overwhelmed her—an unusual circumstance for a woman her own father referred to as “sturdy.” Even sitting, he dwarfed everyone in the room. Only one other man of her acquaintance had made her feel delicate in comparison, but that had been a lifetime ago.

  The man tossed his hat on the table, revealing a mass of dark curls. Another wave of dizziness swamped her as recognition hit. Please, God, let her be wrong. And if she didn’t humiliate herself by fainting, she’d tithe double the next time she found herself near a church.

  Maybe the head wound caused the buzzing in her ears—it couldn’t possibly be because this man still affected her after so long. But no. Even seven years later, Lord Amesbury, the one who had saved her, then callously ruined her, evoked a visceral response. If he thought to save her again, she’d best remember what he’d done the last time they’d met.

  Amesbury leaned forward, sparking an almost-forgotten heat of awareness in her belly. His dark brows were broody slashes under a disobedient lock of hair that fell over his forehead, providing the only softness on his face. Shadows played in the hollows under his cheekbones, where at least a day’s growth of beard made him look as roguish as she knew him to be.

  “I know your concern is for your coachman. ’Tis commendable. But you’re useless if you don’ see tae yourself.” That lilting brogue did something funny to her chest, creating flutters she’d rather not ponder. “Now please hold still so you don’ make a bigger mess on this good woman’s floor.”

  Mrs. Pringle didn’t seem sure if she should leave or stay. The older woman stared at the floorboards while holding the water basin, no doubt wishing to be anywhere else. Lottie felt the same.

  Although his exasperated tone rankled, Lottie allowed the examination. Knowing this man, of all people, saw her in such a state set her cheeks aflame with a mix of embarrassment and fury. Fate, that fickle fiend, always tossed her in his path at her worst, casting him as a hero. With a finger under her chin, Amesbury raised her face toward the morning light streaming through the window. His gruff words were at odds with gentle fingers as he brushed the blood-soaked hair off her brow and prodded at a painful area near her hairline.

  How had he grown more attractive while she’d merely gotten older? Every year her body grew softer, rounder, despite daily rides all over the estate. As the butterflies in her belly would attest, the small lines at the corners of his eyes and a new hardness to his jaw didn’t diminish his appeal. Grossly unfair, in her opinion.

  Over the years, she’d imagined a different meeting. In her version, she always wore a stunning new gown—the picture of intimidatingly competent femininity. Lord Amesbury would stop in his tracks, recognizing her in an instant. Then his striking face would flood with regret, evoking her pity—but only for a moment. A strong cup of tea would help the sensation pass once she snubbed him and went on her way.

  No matter the scenario, Lottie served witty set-downs while looking ethereally beautiful, then left the man with an unrelenting grief to haunt him for the rest of his natural life. Really, was that too much to ask? In her imagination she would marry a gorgeous duke—even though young available dukes weren’t exactly thick on the ground. Especially for spinsters.

  Logic had no jurisdiction in daydreams and fairy tales.

  Reality was sorely lacking. Her traveling gown’s tattered bodice barely clung to modesty, she’d just dripped blood on his boot, and any fool could see Viscount Amesbury didn’t remember her.

  Perhaps it was immature to wish the circumstances of their meeting were different, but the fact was that she found herself in another embarrassing situation requiring his help and he didn’t even have the decency to remember her. Inhaling deeply, she searched for calm and instead filled her head with the scent of him—not the wisest course of action. If only Amesbury favored the usual perfumes or bottled tonics, or smelled of rotten onions with a trace of dock water. Instead, he smelled like a man who bathed, then gave no further thought to his appearance. It reminded her of fresh air, leather, and an underlying warmth she couldn’t place. Now her heart pounded for a different reason.

  The one thing her old suitor-turned-nemesis did well was confuse her. He always had.

  Some things didn’t change, even after seven years. Lottie exhaled his essence, pushing the tangle of emotions from her body. A man she hated so thoroughly shouldn’t smell so comforting.

  Chapter Two

  Heaven’s above, lass. What did you hit your head on? Or rather, what hit you?” he asked.

  “The sides of the carriage. The floor. Probably the roof once or twice. I woke up after the accident.” Their gazes clashed for a heartbeat before Lottie stared down at the table.

  “My guess is you’ll need stitches tae close this wound.” Amesbury brought her hand up to her face. “Press this rag tae your head. There’s a good lass. We have tae slow the bleeding.”

  Lottie winced at the pressure of the cloth but followed his instructions. That commanding presence at work again, convincing everyone around him to do his bidding. But she’d give the same advice to someone else, so Lottie pressed harder and tried not to whine about it.

  Clearly, there wasn’t much more to be done before the doctor arrived. Which meant nothing forced her to sit here with this man, letting him play hero to her damsel in distress—again. Anger sparked, overriding the myriad pains. “Thank you for your help, my lord. Now I need to check on my horse and secure rooms fo
r my staff.” Ignoring her shaking legs, Lottie straightened, forcing herself to move as if she weren’t battered and bruised.

  As she brushed past him, Lottie deliberately knocked his shoulder with her hip, and he had to grab the edge of the table to keep his seat. A huge man like him probably lumbered through life without expecting women to push him around. A onetime event, to be sure, but she welcomed the petty thrill.

  Predictably, he argued. “No, you need tae sit and rest. Wait for the doctor. You’ve suffered a great deal today.” Lord Amesbury looked annoyed. Or maybe that was just his face.

  “I’ll see the doctor when he arrives.” She flicked her skirt hem away from Amesbury, smiling her thanks to Mrs. Pringle, who stood silently by, watching the exchange. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to see to. Mrs. Pringle, I will speak with you privately in a few moments.”

  The man who’d helped her inside returned to their table. A bit of a dandy and less intimidating than his giant friend, he must be the Earl of Carlyle. The name brought forth vague memories involving a gorgeous gentleman who sent the debutantes’ imaginations down church aisles. It would seem Lord Amesbury’s circle of friends hadn’t changed.

  Lord Carlyle’s eyes widened, then he reached out to catch her although she hadn’t wobbled. “Please, miss, your color is not good. Why not sit? Wait for the surgeon.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve spent enough time in Lord Amesbury’s presence to last a lifetime.”

  Lord Carlyle rounded on Amesbury. “It’s been five minutes, Mac. What in God’s name have you managed to bungle in that time?”

  Ah, that’s right. They called him Mac. Of all the obnoxious names to give a Scotsman. But then, Mac had done far worse, hadn’t he?

  Amesbury’s clear bafflement at the situation would be funny if she were not the joke. He didn’t recognize her.

  Seven years before, she’d sat in her drawing room, wondering where he was, when news that he’d turned her into a gossip-rag headline arrived with the first tittering visitors. Instead of offering the expected proposal, her handsome suitor had ruined her. It should be harder to lose one’s reputation.