Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  Those damned nicknames. When he’d arrived in London, he’d discovered that while his size had been an asset back on the farm, in a ballroom he’d been an unpolished bumpkin towering over everyone. They’d named him MacBrute, and now everyone except Connor called him Mac. It didn’t usually bother him, but seeing it in this context left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Lady Charlotte’s father had particularly relished the name, beating Ethan’s unworthiness home with well-placed verbal jabs, including his cousin Jerome’s favorite, “mongrel shepherd.”

  At the time, he’d wanted to defend himself any way he could, and Ethan remembered holding himself back from spouting off on several things. Like informing the earl that English ladies preferred their men with thin necks and padded shoulders only in the ballroom. Behind closed doors, they seemed to appreciate a larger manscape. Considering he’d been dealing with the father of a woman he’d only just decided to court in earnest, none of those arguments would have won favor. So he’d taken the verbal lashing, removed himself from the property, and then proceeded to get exceedingly drunk. That night his wounded pride and whisky tongue had created the Paper Doll Princess.

  Apparently, it didn’t matter that he’d left the philandering, racing, and drinking behind him. After one innocent dinner they were feeding the gossips again.

  “Are you all right?” Cal asked, sipping his coffee.

  “Aye. The rags got wind of Lady Charlotte’s return tae society, and dinner the other night. They’re already pairing us in the gossip columns. A small notice today, but we both know that won’ last.”

  “Just like old times,” Cal murmured. “So what’s your plan?”

  “I could woo the girl tae show the ton I was wrong about her appeal. This Paper Doll Princess nonsense will persist if we don’ do something. I apologized, but I can’t help wondering what else I can do.”

  “Or you could run away to the country and focus on the brewery.”

  “There’s nothing saying I can’t help make things right while I’m in Town finding a brewmaster, aye? If I can find one. The two gentlemen I spoke with yesterday with experience weren’t keen on leaving London.” Ethan picked up the newssheet to reread the short column. Lady Charlotte had tried so hard to minimize the gossip at the Bartlebys’, and they’d still landed in the paper. “Could you do me a favor? Send a footman next door tae Lady Agatha’s, and find out if our neighbors will be at an event this evening.”

  Servants knew everything, and anyone who thought differently wasn’t connected to reality. Maybe talking to Lady Charlotte would shed some light on how he could help make this right. Their names being in the paper was proof that the damage he’d done years ago lingered.

  Later that night, Ethan found a seat at a musicale. The delicate chair squeaked under him and he froze until he felt confident the spindly legs weren’t going to break.

  Two rows away, Lady Agatha loomed tall and regal in silk and black lace, with a black ostrich feather bobbing from her pale silver hair. Beside Lady Agatha, Lottie acknowledged him with a cool nod before facing the front of the room.

  The olive-toned column of her neck distracted him throughout the performance, although she didn’t look back again.

  The gathering wasn’t elaborate. A soprano of moderate talent finished warbling something in Italian, then curtsied to mild applause from the small audience. Their hostess rose, signaling an intermission.

  Calvin had other plans this evening, so Ethan was on his own in this crowd. Whatever they were up to, Cal and Adam “the Puppy” Hardwick were probably having a grand time.

  During moments such as this, standing a head above the others in the room, Ethan was aware of how alone he was in London. Sure, there were friendly nods with inquiring smiles, but no one stepped forward to converse beyond an offhand greeting.

  After eight years in society, he had yet to figure out how to be one of them. The rougher crowd from his younger days would accept him into their fold again, without a doubt. One of them invited him out each time he stayed in London for more than a day or two. But the man they wanted to carouse with and the man he chose to be these days were not the same.

  He rolled his shoulders and ignored the curious looks his presence drew. Evening coats never fit comfortably, even when made by a reputable tailor. They hugged him until he felt constricted instead of fashionable, and collar points were so high as to be ridiculous. Properly tied cravats were an exercise in slowly choking to death. He fought the urge to tug at the length of linen for the umpteenth time as he scanned the room for Lady Charlotte. She’d vanished. Taking a cup of no doubt watered-down punch from a nearby footman, Ethan sought out the closest source of fresh air.

  Beyond the double doors at the far end of the great hall, he found a balcony, which was not empty as he’d hoped. It was hard to complain, though, because there she was—stunning in an emerald gown. The moonlight and lamps created patches on her dress, illuminating the skin above the deep neckline he’d noticed and kept noticing since the evening’s first aria. When she turned away from the house to lean on the balustrade, those lights cast her face in shadow.

  Lady Charlotte hadn’t done anything but stand on a balcony, seemingly in want of the same fresh air he desired, but his skin prickled with awareness. The silky gown slithering over her body was temptation itself, akin to the foliage covering Eve in the Garden of Eden. He’d never related to a serpent so much in his life. Much like the snake and Eve, Ethan wasn’t worthy of her. But he couldn’t deny he craved her attention anyway.

  The door closed behind him with a low snick. Lady Charlotte snapped from her relaxed pose against the stone railing and whirled to face him. When Ethan stepped farther onto the balcony, her posture relaxed infinitesimally and he nearly smiled. Perhaps his presence wouldn’t drive her away after all.

  At a loss for words, he took a drink of the punch and nearly spit it out.

  She settled against the balustrade, crossing her arms in front of her. “Not to your liking?”

  Setting the glass aside on a windowsill, he wrinkled his nose. “’Tis three-quarters brandy, and the rest tastes like piss. Pardon my language, Lady Charlotte.” God, she’d think him a crass idiot. And she’d be correct. “I don’ drink strong spirits. Haven’ for years.” This bloody cravat grew tighter by the second. Running a finger between his throat and the linen, he pulled just enough to loosen the knot a tad.

  Lady Charlotte shot him a glance but did not say anything for a long moment. “I suppose one of us should go in. There will be talk otherwise.”

  “I assume you’ve seen the papers.” Ethan took a step closer until her citrus scent filled his head. “Thank you, by the way. For the way you handled things at the Bartlesbys’. They’re talking anyway, but we both know it could be worse.”

  “Hmm. That we do.”

  Reminding her of their history like that was a dunderheaded move. Leaning back against the balustrade, he took a deep breath and forged ahead. This was why he’d come, after all. To speak with her, not just enjoy looking at her. “Is that how you prefer tae go on? In public, at least, pretend you don’ hate me?” Her direct gaze led him to believe she was considering his words, but her expression wasn’t exactly friendly. “I apologized back at the inn, and I meant it, lass. I’d like tae make this right between us if I can. Business has me in London. If there’s anything I can do while I’m here, I’d like tae do it.”

  She cocked her head. “What business?”

  The question caught him off guard. “I’m building a brewery. Someday all the fine houses in Town will drink Woodrest’s ale, made from my estate’s hops.” Saying it out loud shot a burst of pride through him. “I accepted the Bartlesbys’ invitation hoping tae make connections with future customers, but we both know how quickly that evening veered from plan.”

  She laughed softly, so he took that as encouragement to continue talking. “But before all that happens, I have tae find a decent brewmaster—which is proving tricky.”

&
nbsp; Lady Charlotte worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, and Ethan forgot the thread of conversation entirely for a moment. “I might know someone. Our brewery was famous in Westmorland once upon a time. The brewmaster left when things…changed a few years ago.” A flutter in her voice implied that there was a story there. “Last I heard, he’d moved to London. I can see if he’s looking for a new position if you’d like.”

  Ethan blinked. Could it really be that simple? “That’s incredibly generous of you, Lady Charlotte. If he’d be willing tae leave the city, it would certainly solve my problem.” An awkward chuckle rose unbidden, and he shifted on his feet. “Is that your plan? Make me indebted tae you tae make things right between us?” He winced. “That was supposed tae be a jest, but I sound like an arse, don’ I?”

  She made a little bit motion with her thumb and finger. “A simple thank-you would have sufficed.”

  “Apologies, lass.” He cut a small bow. “If you’d be so gracious as tae send along your former brewmaster’s direction when you discover it, I’d be very grateful.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s your idea of a simple thank-you?”

  The air shifted between them at her teasing. Tension in his shoulders eased, and he found himself grinning. “Is there anything I can do in return? Help with while you’re in Town? Speaking of, why are you in London, lass?”

  “I suppose it will be public knowledge soon enough.” She stared down at her fingers, then knotted them in a fist at her waist. “I’m looking to marry. If all goes well, I’ll find someone suitable, set a wedding date for next year, and be home before the Season begins.”

  Calmly stating a plan of that magnitude might as well be waving a red flag at fate. Ethan couldn’t stop a laugh. “Easy as that, aye? The romantic in you is showing.”

  “Who said anything about romance?” It was her turn to laugh, but the sound held sharp edges hinting at things he didn’t understand. “Love does not last, Lord Amesbury. Even if an emotional attachment persists, life will find a way to interfere. My parents are proof of that.”

  Ethan cocked his head. That was unexpected. “If not love, then what about other reasons tae marry? Affection, companionship…lust?”

  Her dark eyes widened and her breath caught.

  The last word became a tangible thing between them, coming to life at the mere mention of its name. Lust. Possibly the only thing stronger than the history they shared.

  His senses focused on her. The light and shadows playing on curves of soft flesh. The tang of lemon, tempting him to taste. Her exhale whooshed out, warming the air between their faces. She might be light-headed after holding her breath for so long, but it was proof that she was reacting to him. Pleasure bloomed in his chest. He wasn’t alone in this attraction. At least, not in this moment.

  “Don’ you want someone tae woo you? Quote Byron like a fool? ‘She walks in beauty,’ et cetera. An appropriate quote for this evening.” He smiled, daring a compliment. “You look lovely, but I’m sure you already know that.”

  “Are you trying to seduce me, Lord Amesbury?” The question retained some of her teasing tone, as if to downplay the shift between them.

  He leaned an elbow on the stone balustrade, canting his body closer. This conversation wasn’t going to plan at all, but he wasn’t inclined to course correct. After several years of living like a monk, separating himself entirely from his old rakehell habits, it felt marvelous to flirt again. Especially with her. “If I attempted a seduction, I think we both know you’d find some way tae put me in my place.” That drew a smile from her. “I admit, I’m curious tae hear your thoughts on marriage, lass. You seem tae have settled on a plan.”

  The way she met his eyes boldly, despite the flush spreading across her skin, shot straight through his blood. Arching a brow, she said, “You mentioned affection and lust. Neither is a prerequisite for marriage.”

  “That’s a shame, lass. Being familiar with both, I’d hate for you tae miss out on them.” Something compelled him to push her on the subject. Maybe it was his way of testing her boundaries to see if she’d relax with him.

  The pink dusting her chest deepened. More proof that he wasn’t the only one affected by the conversation. “I have other priorities, my lord.”

  “As much as I admire a woman with a plan, emotions have a habit of overriding our intentions, aye?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Her hands clasped the stone railing in front of her like a lifeline, but she didn’t shy away from his gaze. If anything, she straightened her spine, standing with perfect posture in this new conversational minefield.

  He wanted to make things right between them, but the possibility of more bloomed. If they acted on this tension, what would happen? It would cause a cascade of problems. Not the least of which was her intention to find a husband, when he wasn’t the man for the job. Her father had already made that abundantly clear, even if Ethan were inclined toward matrimony. Not that he was disinclined, but his focus had to be on this new business venture—which wouldn’t be helped by an extended stay in London, wooing a woman.

  And yet those warnings came from his rational mind, and that part of his brain wasn’t as compelling as the temptation pounding through every heartbeat thumping in his ears.

  Lady Charlotte took one step toward him along the banister, until her gown pooled in soft folds around his feet, and he never wanted to untangle himself. The swell of her breasts pressed against his arm and chest, making him wish there weren’t so many layers between them. His voice came out rough when he said, “You’ll recognize lust when it happens. And it might change your mind about those plans.” The crest of his lips brushed against her skin. She quivered beneath his mouth, and he felt the movement vibrate through the minuscule space left between them. If he pursed his lips, it would be a kiss—a temptation from which he barely refrained. Instead, Ethan allowed himself the tiniest graze of her cheekbone with the tip of his nose.

  Nuzzling. He’d just nuzzled her. Of all the ridiculous actions. And that was somehow the sexiest thing he’d done with a woman in years. She was unbelievably soft. The tip of her tongue wet her plump bottom lip, and it was all he could do to not take that as an invitation.

  She moved first, turning her head until their noses touched. To kiss her—and God, how he wanted to do that—he’d only have to close that sliver of emptiness between them. Her warm breath, rich with wine, mingled with his, the scent making him feel as if he were tasting her already.

  But without her permission, he’d not cross that threshold. Not when that list of reasons why this was a very bad idea awaited them on the other side of this moment. Not when she might soon remember that she didn’t even like him. “May I kiss you, lass?”

  She held her breath and stared back without answering. When her breathing resumed, he sensed the measured cadence. Inhale for a count of three, exhale for a count of three. The deliberate control brought the balcony around them, with its dappled lantern light breaking the shadows, back into focus.

  Perhaps she too was considering her own list of reasons why this was a bad idea, because she silently shook her head. Just once. Her full bottom lip grazed the corner of his mouth as she denied him.

  Ethan nodded, unable to speak around the disappointment in his throat. She was right. Flirtation on dark balconies was a game best saved for widows and women who knew the score, not unmarried ladies with every reason to hate him. Even if they’d somehow stumbled into a moment when the emotions between them felt like the opposite of animosity.

  A glance over her shoulder at the windows showed no gaping faces, so perhaps no one had witnessed their conversation. Beyond the doors separating them from the rest of the musicale, voices murmured over the lilting melody of stringed instruments.

  Closing his eyes, he took a last draw of lemon-scented air and stepped away. “May I escort you back inside?”

  For a woman who’d just rebuffed his advances, she didn’t seem angry or disgusted. However, the earlier signs of so
ftening—even, dare he say it, arousal—were gone. Lady Charlotte seemed to have shaken off the oddly intense encounter and regained control of herself. With a polite smile lacking teeth or emotion, she said, “No thank you. I’ll make my own way.”

  That was for the best. Grabbing the punch cup from where he’d set it down a million heartbeats before, he turned back to the lights and chatter of the intermission.

  A glance back showed her to be the picture of composure. At least one of them was.

  * * *

  Darling said good night, leaving her alone. Going through the motions of her bedtime routine, Lottie couldn’t hide from one pertinent fact: she’d almost kissed him.

  Out there, on that balcony. As she looked back on the evening, it was like watching strangers in a play. There’d been a strange intimacy in the shadowy space as they’d acknowledged having landed on the same side of the gossip rags. Uncomfortable allies, as it were.

  He’d apologized again, and perhaps it was the repetition, but she was more inclined to believe this time that his remorse was genuine. She’d softened further, remembering how he’d spoken up for her and then managed to be a charming companion at dinner a few nights ago. What had begun as a pretend friendship for appearances against Lady Bartlesby had felt real by the end of the night.

  In the two days since then, she’d caught sight of him coming and going from Lord Carlyle’s house. There’d been nods of acknowledgment, a small wave in greeting, and even a polite exchange about the weather.

  In short, he was trying. And tonight, he’d reiterated that apology and his desire to make things right between them.

  Acknowledging his role in her life as something other than an enemy complicated things. She didn’t know how to go about finding her feet if she didn’t hate him, so she’d defaulted back to what she knew. They’d gone from polite conversation to talking business. To his credit, he hadn’t seemed put out when she’d offered opinions and assistance. In fact, he’d thanked her.

  There’d been none of the ego she often encountered when discussing business matters with men. No verbal pat on the head, with a condescending request to let the men handle things. He hadn’t even once questioned whether she was qualified to recommend someone worthy of his time.