“Come now, love,” he said with a silky, firm voice. “Don’t turn missish now. We aren’t leaving until you kiss me properly.”
The charming man she’d thought she knew had disappeared. Instead, his flat eyes were set in a face that used to be handsome and now appeared to be carved from stone. The sneer he wore fit him better than a smile ever had. Everything Amesbury had warned her about was true. This man was a bully, a cad, and a reprobate.
Montague held the reins, literally and figuratively. By refusing to set the horses toward home unless she kissed him back, he’d trapped her. At his mercy, she felt a cold pressure behind her ribs, limiting her air to shallow sips.
Not knowing what else to do, she shook her head. Denying the situation, denying him a kiss, denying that she’d somehow landed here, outside London, with no way home besides him. When Montague kissed her again, it was a second invasion she hadn’t asked for.
This had nothing to do with romance. Even a woman with her nonexistent romantic history knew that. His fingers pinched her upper arms. If she bit his tongue, he might do worse than a kiss.
But then, if she vomited on him, perhaps that would speak for itself too. A whimper clawed up the back of her throat as she tore her face away, twisting to use a shoulder to create precious inches between them.
“Please, sir. I don’t feel well.” Truth. Her stomach rolled with acid waves fed by fear.
“So formal, my love. I told you to call me James.” The fingers on her arms tightened. There would definitely be marks to commemorate their time together. But in that split second, she saw an opening. He’d dropped the reins to hold her arms, trying to turn her body to face him.
She trapped the leather straps under her boot so they wouldn’t fall off the driver’s perch. If she was going to get herself out of this, she’d need those reins. As a girl, she’d wrestled with her brother, and one particular tussle they’d had in the stables surfaced above the panic flooding her mind. She wasn’t helpless.
Mustering every thread of strength and rage, she moved her head and hands at once. Slamming her forehead into Montague’s face, she pushed against his chest. The seat was narrow and high, made of slick polished wood, and Montague sailed right off it with a cry that rang like music to her but spooked the horses. It took precious seconds to grab the reins, and only sheer dumb luck sent the carriage moving in the right direction. Sending a quick prayer of thanks for her rough-and-tumble big brother, she slapped the reins against the backs of the matched pair and let loose a whoop of triumph when the phaeton jarred and lurched its way out of the clearing.
The journey back to the road was worse than coming in, because all she cared about was speed. A quick glance back showed Montague running after the phaeton with a bloody nose, limping slightly. One irate dandy was no match for two horses, even with a driver who had no idea what she was doing.
Once on the road, she gave them their heads, wanting as much distance from him as possible. Lottie focused on the horizon. There were buildings. They weren’t too far out of town, then.
How she’d erred, thinking Montague manageable, when she couldn’t even convince him they weren’t getting married. In the distance, those buildings grew taller. The horses slowed, and she eyed the reins, tracing which lead went to which side of each horse. As she threaded the leather through her fingers, Lottie released a sigh, and with it the panic that had gripped her.
That’s when the shaking started. It began in her thighs and traveled up her belly to her arms. As she pressed her hands to her knees to steady them, her throat closed around a sob. Her brain was a jumble of emotion, so she focused on one thing: driving. One unemotional thing, because she couldn’t handle more than that or she’d fall apart. On the way to London, she would learn to drive with twice the lines she was used to. And by God, she wouldn’t cry yet.
After what seemed an eternity, she arrived at her house, a few streets away from their original destination of the park. If only she’d raised more of a fuss when he’d passed those gates, she would still have a first kiss to give, and her arms wouldn’t have finger-sized bruises. Before the self-recriminations could settle in, she said aloud, “Yes, and that bastard wouldn’t be walking home.”
She jumped down from the swaying seat and clutched the side of the carriage, waiting for her legs to support her.
Montague would never touch her again.
As she climbed the stairs, keeping her footfalls steady, tears pooled in her eyes. Counting her steps, she clung to control. Five. Then to the door. Eight.
Dawson opened the door. The first tear fell with her stuttering exhale as her feet crossed the threshold, and his concerned expression loosed the rest of the tears.
“Thank you, Dawson. Please have the carriage returned to Mr. Montague’s address.”
“Are you all right, milady?”
She ignored the tear trailing down her cheek and summoned a smile. “I will be, Dawson. My association with Mr. Montague has come to an end. Under no circumstances is he welcome in this home.”
Dawson straightened to attention. “Mr. Montague shall never be permitted entry, milady. I’ll notify the staff.” The man might be older than Moses, but Lottie understood why Agatha liked him.
“Thank you. I’ll be in my room, if you’d be so kind as to send Darling to me.” Lottie turned on her heel with precise movements while her heart fluttered in her chest like a panicked bird in a cage. The last bit of fight seeped out of her. She needed to sit down soon, before the trembling overtook her entirely.
Steady on.
Just a little farther.
The fragile composure lasted until she closed her bedroom door. Clenching her hands into fists until her fingernails stung her palms, she repeated one thought like a mantra. No matter what she’d lost, in the end she had won. It was vital she remember that.
Chapter Ten
Ethan leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing one foot over the other. The antics in front of him were the perfect entertainment on his first morning back in London.
“Admit defeat, Puppy. I’ve been doing this far longer than you,” Cal taunted, advancing toward his opponent on the red carpet of the long gallery.
Adam Hardwick’s grin flashed fast as his rapier as he countered each move with whip-thin arms that seemed to be an extension of the sword. At first, Ethan worried for the younger man—Calvin would trounce him with complete disregard for Adam’s obvious case of hero worship.
Turned out, he should have saved the concern for Cal. Obnoxious bravado aside, everyone in this gallery knew Adam was going to win. It was just a matter of time.
“You’re flapping your jaw an awful lot for someone who should be conserving his energy,” the Puppy replied. Blades flashed through the sunlight from the windows. Hardwick’s tightly shorn red hair atop his thin, freckled frame made him resemble a lit candle as he held his own, occasionally dodging a shiny sword with nimble alacrity. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for with speed and dogged determination. The lad had his fair share of raw talent as well.
“Did you just imply that I’m old?” Cal sounded almost wheezy.
“If the shoe fits,” the Puppy said, not a bit of breathlessness interrupting his chirpy impudence.
Ethan laughed, shaking his head. Yes, this was so much better than arguing with masonry workers. A moment later Adam disarmed Cal with a flourish, leaving Cal with his chest heaving, staring at his sword five feet away.
Cal bowed to his grinning opponent. “Well played, Puppy. Let’s go downstairs to the breakfast room. If I have to endure you rubbing this in my face all morning, I’ll need sustenance. Join us, Mac?”
Ethan shook his head. “I thought I’d go next door and coax Lady Charlotte out for a ride. The last time I saw her, we parted ways under unpleasant circumstances.”
“Lady Charlotte?” Adam asked.
“Mac is on a mission to make an arse of himself over the lady next door. Again,” Cal explained as he wrapped the swords in oilclo
th.
Ethan rolled his eyes. “I’m trying tae make amends. I destroyed her first Season with an unflattering nickname.”
“Oh, you mean that Paper Doll nonsense. I read something about that. How do you propose making up for ruining her Season?” Adam had a face full of freckles and kind eyes. No judgment, just curiosity.
Ethan could see why Calvin liked him. “I have no idea, but—”
Cal interrupted, “The entire thing is a disaster waiting to happen. It’s great fun to watch. I’ll try to get you an invitation the next time we go out.”
“Does this woman have dark curly hair? Pretty?” Adam asked.
Ethan nodded.
“I passed her when I arrived. She looked to be on her way out for a ride.”
Ethan straightened. “Which way was she headed? Perhaps I can run into her.” He owed her an apology for butting in about Montague last week. Besides, call him a glutton for punishment, but he wanted to see her.
Adam jerked his head in the direction of every decent park in the area. Green Park, St. James’s Park, and Hyde Park. Hundreds of acres of green space. Hyde Park alone was over three hundred acres. It would be a happy coincidence if he found her.
A short while later Ethan entered the Grosvenor Gate of Hyde Park. As if manifested from his mind, she sat in profile, confident and entirely at home atop a beautiful bay several yards away. She held her mount in place, looking out at the park trails. What she searched for, Ethan didn’t know, but she certainly made a pretty picture. Like a painting titled Lady on Horseback. A groom waited patiently behind her. Several curls escaped down her back from what might have once been an elegant coiffure, so perhaps she’d already been for her run this morning.
Ethan waved. “Lady Charlotte, might I have a word?”
Drawing closer, he noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes that hinted at a sleepless night. She didn’t answer, but she waited for him to join her.
“I owe you an apology for my behavior the last time we spoke. You were right tae tell me tae mind my own business. I’m sorry for upsetting ye and sorry for my rudeness.”
Her blink was slow, as if she’d taken a few extra seconds to process his words. “You were right to warn me about Montague, even if you were rude.”
Beyond the exhaustion, her eyes had a dull, defeated look that was unlike the woman he’d met before now. Had her suitor shown his true colors? Concern overrode etiquette, so he said, “I know I just apologized for sticking my nose in your affairs, but are you all right?”
She nudged her mare into a leisurely walk. “A headache kept me awake all night. It’s made me quite cross, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry tae hear that. Did something happen with Mr. Montague?” A flock of birds left a nearby tree in a feathered swirl, their squawking filling the pause as he waited for her answer. He’d wait all day if need be. They headed off the trail toward a copse of trees.
“You were right about him. Now’s your chance to say, ‘I told you so.’ Go ahead.”
“I won’ do that, my lady. Especially if he hurt you.” What had happened? Possible scenarios crossed his mind, each worse than the last. “I know we aren’ exactly friends, but I am worried for you, lass.”
She pulled her mount to a stop and turned to him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this—to you of all people—but I could use a friend. The only person outside my house who cared enough to warn me away from Montague was you.”
“Are you certain you want tae befriend the man who made you flee Town for nearly a decade?” Emotions piled into his chest in a happy mess, but he couldn’t quite believe the offer of friendship was genuine.
“Please, you give yourself too much credit, my lord.” For the first time this morning she smiled at him, like the sun coming out on a gloomy day, warming everything in its path. “That Paper Doll Princess nonsense knocked the wind out of me but not for long. I retreated, cried, then plotted your demise—”
“As one does,” he teased, and she laughed.
“Mother finally convinced me that rather than murder you, a better revenge would be to return triumphant and publicly reject you as a potential suitor for anyone of merit. Show everyone you were wrong.”
“I was wrong. So what happened?”
Her smile turned bittersweet. “My brother, Michael, died. Then Mother followed soon after from a fever. Father couldn’t handle the loss. He retreated to his library, and I stepped in to run things.”
That sank in as he stared at the sky’s reflection off the Serpentine stretched out before them. He hadn’t driven her away for nearly a decade. Life had intervened in her plans, not shame or embarrassment. No wonder she’d changed since her debut. During the interim years, Lady Charlotte had grieved nearly everyone. That was a situation he understood all too well. Mum, Da, his gran’da, cousins…only he remained. “’Twas a tremendous loss for your family. I’m sorry.”
The black plume on her hat bobbed with her nod. “The one bright spot was learning where I belong. Running the estate, implementing changes, and taking care of the tenants—that means something. And I’m good at it. Or I was, until Father pulled out of his grief and took it away.”
The horses passed through the trees, the morning light kissing her cheeks. Ethan was content to listen to her talk, since she obviously needed to get a few things off her chest.
“So here I am, an old maid searching for a husband just so I can have a home of my own to do what I love.”
“You’re not an old maid. You may not be fresh from the schoolroom, but you’re hardly ready for caps and yarn crafts.” Their conversation at the musicale, when she’d described her idea of marriage, made sense now. “If your goal is tae have your own estate tae manage, then marriage is a means tae an end.”
She looked surprised. “Of course it is. Why else would I want a husband?”
His laugh came out a bit too loud, scaring a bird out of a nearby tree. “I’m not so foolish as tae guess at the female mind. Especially yours. I suspect it’s mostly twisty bits and dark corners.”
“You aren’t wrong.” She shrugged with a smile.
That pile of emotions in his chest settled into one clear thought. “I would like tae be your friend, my lady. Very much.”
“Good,” she said. “Because hating you is downright exhausting when you’re right in front of me. You’re much easier to despise from afar. Speaking of which, where have you been for the last week?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how she’d noticed. Checking his bedroom window, perhaps? Ethan cleared his throat. “I went home. Mr. Macdonell agreed tae meet this week, so I took the time tae visit Woodrest.”
“You made contact with Macdonell, then? He’s a good man. I hope he will be an asset to your estate.”
“I hope so as well. We have an interview tomorrow afternoon. If it works out, I’ll owe you a great debt.”
“We’re friends now. I’m sure I’ll collect on that debt soon enough,” she said.
* * *
In Ethan’s opinion, one thing London did well was bookshops. The shops crammed with aisles, rows, and stacks of stories and information just waiting for a reader were the best part of Town. While these literary riches did not make up for the abject poverty, the sooty air, and a river that ran thick with sewage, they provided a haven he could return to whenever the world outside the shop door grew too dark. In a way, the proprietor of this shop in particular had borne silent witness to the ups and downs of Ethan’s entire history in society.
A small bell tinkled over the door as he entered, then it faded back into quiet stillness. The smells of ink and paper, of dust and leather bindings, never failed to soothe.
“Good day, milord. The book you ordered arrived this morning. I was just preparing it for shipping.” The shopkeeper, Mr. Matthews, held out a heavy encyclopedia for his examination. The binding was tight, and the leather wasn’t worn at the corners yet, although it had to be an older copy, since the bookseller had hunted it down fro
m an estate parceling off its private library. Hundreds of pages detailing livestock ailments and cures, both common and rare.
“Excellent, Mr. Matthews. I’ll take it home with me today.”
Ethan wandered the familiar rows, brushing his hand along the spines as if greeting old friends. When he found what he sought, he couldn’t suppress a grin. Gold lettering on the cover contrasted perfectly with the dark leather binding.
The last time he’d brought a gift to Lady Charlotte, years ago, he’d chosen a small posy of peonies, if he remembered correctly. Innocuous blooms that in no way implied anything beyond I think you’re a nice person. Here, have some flowers. Tucking the slim volume under his arm, Ethan took the long route back to the counter, where Mr. Matthews wrapped the encyclopedia in paper and twine.
Since their ride yesterday, this situation with Lady Charlotte had been rolling about in his mind. Considering where they’d been less than a month ago, her offer of friendship was nothing short of miraculous. The problem was him. Yes, he wanted to be her friend—almost as much as he wanted to kiss her and hear her moan his name. Somehow, he didn’t think that was the level of amicability she sought. While being her completely platonic friend, he’d have to ignore his growing desire for her while she searched for a husband.
That might drive him mad.
Even considering impossible scenarios in which Lady Charlotte desired him in return, there was no getting around her father. The earl’s feelings regarding a match between them were clear—and that conversation had happened before Ethan went and spouted off in a bout of drunken idiocy. If Lady Charlotte ever decided she wanted him as much as he wanted her, they’d be in quite a pickle. The earl was a formidable man in both power and reputation.
He smoothed a hand over the leather volume he’d selected and set it on the counter. Friends gave one another gifts, especially when one of those friends had been dealing with something upsetting. Whatever had happened with Montague, it had cost her a night of sleep. Hopefully, the book would make her smile.
Any Rogue Will Do Page 11
