The incoming headache thumped at the base of her skull, setting itself apart from her other injuries. Tucking her chin under the blanket, she surrendered to the imminent agony. If she held still, perhaps she wouldn’t vomit this time.
Like an unruly child determined to poke at things with a pointy stick, her mind wandered back to Lord Amesbury. He’d been quite the sight this morning, so tall and broad and oozing confidence. Any average-sized person had to stand with a kink in their neck if they wanted to meet his gaze at a close distance.
She remembered those eyes. The first time she’d crossed paths with him, they’d triggered a longing for her carefree days on the seashore as a child, when the sun lit up the ocean and made the sea match the summer sky. Those blue eyes with their streaks of sunny gold had been the most beautiful things she’d ever seen when he’d pulled her to safety from the mob months later. They’d softened with tender promise when he insisted he would check on her the next day.
Rolling over took tremendous effort, but the way her body sank into the mattress made it worth it.
News of Amesbury had been scarce since Lottie left London. Agatha remained her best source of Town gossip, but she had an understandable bias against the man who’d hurt Lottie. Her honorary aunt and godmother’s letters were more reliable and often more entertaining than the Times. Surely Agatha would have mentioned if Amesbury married—unless she deemed his marriage beneath her notice. Which was entirely plausible.
Damn. Amesbury might have a wife. What an odd notion. Another woman might even now be choosing her most flattering day dress and debating which sofa in the drawing room had the best light, so she’d be backlit with an angelic glow as she welcomed him home. Lottie sniffed. Yes, she’d been a hopeful fool, preparing for an offer that never came.
“Good luck to the poor girl. She’ll need it.” The words fell flat. But as she clung to them, her fortress of self-control finally crumbled. Tears wet the blanket beneath her, dripping into the tight curls framing her face.
Everything broke loose with the tears.
This return to London for another Season felt wrong without her mother. After a childhood of forgotten promises, solitary tea parties, and a parade of governesses, Lottie knew where she stood in the grand scheme of things. Mother and Father’s passion for one another had eclipsed all else, and any remaining emotional energy had been lavished on her brother, the heir. But when the time came for decorum lessons and preparation for her debut? For the first time in her life, Lottie’s time with Mother had no limits. When her debut wasn’t a success, they planned to conquer the ton a few years later and prove to them all that Charlotte Wentworth wasn’t one to be trifled with.
Then her brother, Michael, died in the Battle of New Orleans. The next year, just as they were coming out of their blacks from Michael, Mother fell sick. They never made it back to Town and the infamous Marriage Mart. What appeal did London hold without her mother?
More tears escaped onto the pillow as anger over her father’s ultimatum and his insistence that she marry and leave the estate in his hands rose to the surface. Yes, the black cloud of mourning seemed to have lifted, but what if he woke up tomorrow and refused to deal with his responsibilities? How many of their tenants would suffer again under a landlord who didn’t care enough to move beyond his library?
After their family’s losses, he’d retreated to his bed for weeks. When he eventually moved to the library, she’d thought it progress and assumed he was quietly dealing with estate matters. But no. The library became his sanctuary away from the real world. Their people went without, and the estate fell apart until Lottie stepped in and took the reins. Not that she’d had any clue what she was doing. But she’d learned. And for a few years, all went smoothly. Until her father decided he would resume control.
After she put in years of satisfying labor at Stanwick Manor, making a difference and doing things that mattered, she didn’t receive so much as a thank-you—just demands that she marry Mr. Montague or someone else suitable before the year’s end. The unfairness of seeing hard work torn from her hands stung. Self-pity was a great reason to cry.
She grieved the accident and Patrick’s agony as he’d landed in the road like a broken doll, with his leg pointing in the wrong direction.
All this pain and fuss, and she still must face the ton with only Agatha as a chaperone, and no friends her own age. If she’d ever needed a friend, it was now. All her acquaintances had husbands and children. Their letters had brimmed with society gossip, babies, and shopping trips, while hers spoke of loss, death, and tenant needs. Understandably, the correspondence had eventually stopped. Lottie had never been so alone.
Pent-up emotion leaked out of her as she cried until the building headache receded, withdrawing its claws for another day. The crackling blaze of the fire and the clean citrus scent of her hair soothed her, leeching the tension away with each shuddery sigh.
Lottie flung the quilt aside far enough to free her legs just as her belly rumbled. Between the doctor’s visit, the bath, waiting for clothes, and that brief emotional breakdown, she’d missed the midday meal. A glance out the window showed the skies darkening as the first raindrop hit the glass pane with a plop. Brilliant. The weather matched her mood.
Chapter Four
Studying his cards, Ethan wished to be anywhere besides this little inn in rainy Warwickshire. Not long after their visit with the local brewmaster this afternoon, Mother Nature had opened the skies in a deluge that made travel unwise. Several other men stranded by the weather had formed a card game in the public room and provided alcoholic social lubricants, and here they were.
Ethan motioned to Cal. “Your play, my friend.”
Two queens fluttered to the floor. After squinting at the remaining cards in his hand, Cal peered down at the queens with a frown but didn’t seem inclined to pick them up. Apparently their time at the tables had come to an end.
“I think we’re done.” Ethan ignored the groans from the other players. In his current condition, Cal was an easy mark. “Move along, Calvin. Let’s leave our chairs for a few fellows who aren’t as bosky.”
“It’s fine, Mac. I can play piquet with my eyes closed.” Cal clutched a bottle of whisky to his chest as if someone would snatch it away.
Ethan hefted his friend out of the chair and led him to a table near the window. “The game was vingt-et-un.”
“Oh. I guess that changes things.” Cal collapsed into a chair, the seat barely catching his backside. “Any news on the lovely Lady Charlotte?” Rolling his Ls must have been vastly entertaining, because Cal sat flicking his tongue for a moment before refocusing on their conversation.
“I haven’ seen her since she told me tae go tae the devil.” Not that he hadn’t looked. Every time he entered one of the public rooms, he searched for her dark curls. During their visit with the brewmaster he’d gleaned valuable insight from the local brewery’s layout, but she’d lingered in the back of his mind. All plans to leave for London were washed away when the rain wreaked havoc on the streets. They were stuck here. With her.
“What are you going to do about it?” Cal asked with his typical cheer. “Perhaps this is your chance to grovel—a lot. I would recommend the most impressive level of groveling ever seen by man or beast. A grovel worthy of such a damn spectacular bosom.”
“I owe her an apology at the very least.” The idea took hold, and he held tight to the hope it brought. His behavior during those early years after inheriting had provided ample reasons to make amends to several people since. If she forgave him, it would be one more piece of absolution toward his pile of sins. If nothing else, he knew the act of apologizing and owning his actions would go a long way toward soothing the painful memories he carried.
“Lucky dog. You have the opportunity to tell a woman you were a drunken idiot.” A hiccup punctuated Cal’s teasing.
“Back then I was a drunken idiot with alarming frequency.”
“You’re sober as a judge now.
At least one of us is. In those days, we viewed too many nights through the bottom of a bottle.” He held up the whisky as if making a point. “Haven’t imbibed like this in a long time.”
True. It had been quite a while since he’d seen Cal like this. “I’ll have tae wait for an opportunity, I suppose.” Ethan held out a hand for the bottle. “Do you think you’ve had enough? You’ll hate your head in the morning.”
With a sigh, Cal pushed the bottle of whisky toward Ethan with one finger. “Fine. You may have to run her to ground and make an opportunity. The onus falls on you, my friend. You made her the laughingstock of London. When you tell everyone a girl is dull as dishwater, don’t expect a great deal of goodwill from that corner.”
“I never said she was dull. I said—”
Calvin raised his glass in the air as if reciting Shakespeare. “Witless, with nothing to offer but a dowry and a passably pretty face. She’s a Paper Doll Princess. Dress her up, then carry her in your pocket—along with the fortune you gained in exchange for a lifetime of boredom.” Amber liquid sloshed over the rim onto the table. Cal grimaced at the mess and shoved his glass aside. “You, my friend, were a bit of a prick.”
Studying his long legs and dirty boots, Ethan winced. “Aye, I was.” There had been a clear moment after he’d said those awful words when regret had churned in his belly, threatening to eject the drinks he’d imbibed. Even as he’d tried to backtrack, to call back the foolish words spoken to the men he’d been trying so hard to impress, those so-called friends became wagging tongues. It wasn’t long before the gossip rags got wind of his cruelty. The nickname spread faster than anyone could have predicted. Highlights papered shop windows with damning ink sketches. Each morning, as Lady Charlotte’s visage appeared in unflattering cartoons, society lapped up every drop of the scandal over tea and toast. And Ethan? The men thought him hilarious, demanding more of his biting commentary. That night had set the stage for both his and Lady Charlotte’s reputations, neither of them liking their new role.
The irony lay in the fact that Lady Charlotte had been the perfect debutante. The expectations of her station were clear, and she lived up to them. Set on a course to find a husband, she’d been ready to do her duty to her family and further the blue-blooded aristocratic values of England. God save the king, and all that.
He’d needed her money. The new title had come with crippling debt, and like a young fool, he’d seen her as an easy way to save the estate. It was a cold comfort that he hadn’t fallen into the trap of being a full-fledged fortune hunter. Any old fortune wouldn’t do—he wanted to like his wife, to desire her. In a perfect world, he’d have a love match like his parents, with a conveniently hefty dowry.
Licking a drop of ale from his lip, Ethan scanned the ceiling. She was up there somewhere, injured, but would be mad as a wet cat if he showed up to check on her. How had the doctor’s visit gone? It would take a physician with a steady hand to avoid a scar like the jagged silvery-white line on Ethan’s shoulder. For certain, her coachman needed a doctor who would try his damnedest to keep the leg intact. Unlike that drunkard who’d been there after Ethan’s accident. That hack had taken his friend and passenger Connor’s limb with no more thought than he’d give to carving a Christmas ham.
Although he’d made sure the rescue team brought her trunk to her room, the need to do more nagged at him. But then, many things about Lady Charlotte Wentworth lingered in his brain.
The memory of the first time he’d seen her hadn’t faded despite the years. One look at those dark eyes across a dance floor, and he’d proudly scribbled his new title on her dance card at every gathering after that. On several occasions during the following weeks, he’d brought flowers to her home during calling hours, like a proper suitor. But when they spoke outside the confines of a waltz, she lacked the fire he’d witnessed today. Little by little, that initial attraction waned, replaced by disillusionment.
The day after the prime minister was shot, there was that moment when she thanked him for getting her away from the hordes of people clogging the roads. Especially given their previous interactions, he would have expected her to be a shaken mess. Instead, she kept her head in the face of a dangerous mob and worked with him to get out of there. That cool determination made him think perhaps there was more to her. He hoped to peel back those layers and know her better, and his attraction flared back to life.
When he called on her the next day, her father put an end to Ethan’s intentions. The earl didn’t mince words. Ethan wasn’t good enough for the likes of her, and his advances weren’t welcomed by Lady Charlotte or her father. The earl called him a fortune hunter to his face—something for which he had no rebuttal. The bouquet he’d brought for Lady Charlotte that morning was much appreciated by the fruit seller on the corner.
If he gave her flowers now, she would probably try to shove them down his gullet.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? Lord, you’re a case. If you could see your expression, you’d laugh.” Even drunk, Cal knew him too well. It wasn’t only Lady Charlotte in his head now, but the events of the past that haunted him.
The circle of lads he’d called friends had encouraged more foolishness, until that awful evening when he’d agreed to race, wanting to show off for his visiting clansman, Connor. They were drunk. Of course they were. That race and the subsequent accident had nearly killed Connor. All because of Ethan’s poor judgment. The same poor judgment that had destroyed Lady Charlotte’s Season. Shame wrapped around him with the memories, and Ethan sighed, accepting the emotion as his due. All he wanted to do was go enjoy his quiet room and read a book. “You’ve dipped a wee bit deep today, aye? Maybe you should go upstairs and rest before dinner.”
“Yes, I’m drunk. Drunkety-drunk-drunk. But at least I’m not pouting over a woman.” Cal stifled a belch behind a fist, broke wind, then giggled. The Drunk’s Trifecta.
Drunkety-drunk-drunk Cal spoke the truth.
Years ago Ethan had been a shallow arse, more concerned with Lady Charlotte’s bosom than with her brains, and too lazy to discover what was beneath her faux calm. Moments ago, those same breasts had been a topic of conversation, so perhaps he was a lost cause as a human being. These past five years of living like a monk might have been for naught, because he clearly hadn’t become a better person.
Rubbing his hands over his face, Ethan sighed. “Come along, Cal. Let’s pour you into your bed. Have a lie-down. Perhaps you’ll be sober enough by dinner.”
* * *
Patrick had awakened long enough for Darling to force one of the concoctions left by the doctor into him, then passed out again.
The warm coziness of Lottie’s bedroom had felt comfortable for only a short time after Lottie’s trunks arrived. With Darling at Patrick’s bedside, the solitude of Lottie’s room just felt empty. Noise, chaos, and watching her fellow travelers with a sense of anonymity sounded like the ideal distraction.
Alas, Dame Good Fortune didn’t smile on her tonight. There would be no anonymity. As soon as she entered the taproom, Lord Amesbury met her eyes over the rim of his glass, sparking a battle of wills to see who would look away first. Lottie’s cheeks warmed, but she held his gaze until reaching a small table, then coolly gave him her back. He could decide if she’d given him the cut direct. Hint—yes.
A movement caught her attention, and Lottie checked the reflection in the window. That distinctive silhouette stood out whether in a drawing room or a taproom. Especially in a drawing room. Here, with the dark wood-planked walls and floor, he appeared to lurk like a storybook giant in his cave. Or an ogre. And he was coming her way.
When they’d first met, he’d been friendly, admiring, even flirtatious. She distinctly remembered a conversation with Father about the young viscount, instigated by Amesbury’s heated gaze during their first waltz. Tonight, the weight of his inspection skittered across the back of her neck. The almost-forgotten memory of that dance came alive with ghostlike brushes on her waist and ha
nd where he’d held her a hair closer than entirely appropriate. That lecture from her father had been a humiliating hour of chastisements regarding inappropriate advances and how to bring an acceptable man up to scratch.
She hadn’t pulled away during that waltz, for fear of losing his attention. But those days of cowering and biting her tongue were over. She would, however, ignore him with studious ferocity.
That worked for all of thirty seconds before he blocked the weak evening light streaming through the rear windows. Lord Amesbury took a seat across the table. “How are you feeling?”
Mrs. Pringle bustled to their table and set a large bowl before Lottie. A hunk of bread rested atop soup, already soaking up the rich juices. Plunking a tankard of ale on the table, Mrs. Pringle gave them a distracted nod, then moved on to another customer.
“I don’t recall asking you to join me.”
A gentleman would not linger where he wasn’t welcome. He grinned and stayed put. Not that she should expect any less. Amesbury propped his elbows on the table. “You’re different. In a good way.”
“Does unbridled hatred put roses in my cheeks?”
He laughed instead of showing any signs of contrition under her withering look. “See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You’re feistier now, lass, an’ that’s the truth.”
“I’m the same woman you courted, then shamed. Not that it matters. Your high regard no longer concerns me.” Lottie took a dainty nibble of the bread and nearly moaned. The yeasty bread’s crisp crust stood up to the soup juices, as well as a generous slathering of butter. Heaven.
Amesbury swiped the tankard in front of her, then took a long drink before setting it down again, holding her gaze.
Any Rogue Will Do Page 3
